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To help make the mortgage—nobody wanted to rent a murdered woman’s room—she took extra shifts on Monday nights.
A gift from the boss, she knew, as she wasn’t needed.
Rather than biking home, changing, maybe making a sandwich, she’d grabbed her bar clothes after she’d seen the tires. She changed in the bathroom at Greenwald’s, did what she could with her makeup.
It would mean biking home after midnight, but she had reflectors and a headlight. It’s fine, she told herself.
She served locals, mixed drinks for tourists.
A man sat on an empty stool. Stocky build, mid-fifties, ink-black hair worn with a hint of wave. He wore a baby-blue golf shirt—Lacoste—and summer-weight khakis.
“Nice evening,” he said.
“It certainly is. What can I get you?”
“Bombay and tonic, twist of lime. Nice place,” he added as he looked around. “Got a nice feel to it.”
“We think so. First time in?”
“Yep. Just passing through. From the area, are you?”
“I am now.” When she served his drink, he laid a piece of notepaper with a number on it. “That’s what he owes me as of today.” Then he held up a hand. “I didn’t bring you any trouble. Came here to have a one-on-one, public place.”
Her throat clicked as she tried, and failed, to swallow. “I don’t have any money.”
“I said this”—he tapped the paper—“is whatheowes me. Not you. He screwed over both of us. My employees brought me your story. I get a lot of sad stories, lots of bullshit stories, but yours checked out.”
He lifted his drink, watching her as he sipped. “Nice pour on the Bombay. So, I’m telling you, you won’t have any trouble on my end.” He put the paper back in his pocket. “It’s not your debt to pay. Didn’t seem right to add that to your list of troubles, so you can cross it off.”
He drank some more. “He gave me a sad story. He’s got a way with a story. No need to go into it. Pisses me off. Your name, your address, where you work. Both jobs. Anything about him you know I didn’t read in the news reports and such?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t read any of it. I couldn’t.”
He just nodded. “I read about your friend, saw her picture. Beautiful girl. Only sick fuckers do that to beautiful girls.”
He took out a money clip, peeled off two fifties.
“We’re clear, you and me. My word on it, and my word’s good. I’m sorry for your troubles.”
“Mr. Castle.” She nudged the bills toward him. “This is too much.”
He shook his head. “I pay my debts,” he said, and walked out.
When she stepped out of the house the next morning, Nina’s car had four new tires.
Chapter Five
Summer rolled into autumn without any of Morgan’s usual pleasure in the change of seasons.
Reality had to be faced.
Juggling, juggling, juggling, she’d tried to hold on. But the lawyer fees mounted to beyond what she’d asked her grandmother to lend her.
She couldn’t bring herself to ask for more, not when she so clearly saw her life become an endless cycle of work, bills, debt, worry.
They wanted to come, her mother, her grandmother, but she couldn’t face that either and put them off.
Even working nearly eighty hours a week, she fell behind. Nina’s car—it would forever be Nina’s car—needed more work, and though she knew Larry bottomed down his price for her, it cut into the budget.
