Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I grab the Moleskine, tuck it into my bag, and tell the quiet apartment, “I’m going to find the man who smiles when he calls people bright.”
Outside, Saint Pierce is all low clouds and puddled sidewalks. The wind tastes like the river. I walk fast to Atlas Room because taxis in my neighborhood pretend I’m invisible. The sign over the door hums faint blue. Inside, it’s all velvet and whisper and the clink of old-fashioned glasses conquered by beautiful ice.
The bartender is a woman with silver hair in a low knot and a tattoo of a honeybee on her wrist. Her name tag says Megan. Her eyebrows ask you okay? the second she clocks my face.
“I know you,” she says gently.
“Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand and she shakes it. Then she laughs.
“However, I don’t agree that Scream is clever with their commentary on the horror genre.”
My eyes widen. “How can you not? They are depicting classic horror movie tropes while being stalked and murdered by said horror tropes. It’s brilliant.”
“What brings you to the Atlas Room midday?”
“Research,” I say, shimmying onto a stool. I pull Arby’s Moleskine from my bag and lay it on the bar like a talisman. When Megan sees the pages, her expression shifts—recognition, then careful neutrality.
“You knew her,” I say.
Megan nods, lips softening. “She ordered like she was flirting with the menu. Wanted to be surprised and still get what she liked.”
“She wrote smoked honey next to this place’s name.” I slide the notebook so Megan can see the line. “Did she come here with a man named Nico?”
Megan’s fingers go still on the bar rag. “Pretty boy,” she says finally. “Older than the crowd. Tailored suits you wanted to touch. Accent that made tips appear in his wake.”
“Accent?”
“Not thick. Just rounded edges, like the vowels were on vacation.” She smiles, then sobers. “Was that…something?”
“I don’t know yet.” My voice wobbles. “Did he say his last name?”
“Nico something-with-an-A,” Megan says slowly. “Ar—Arno? Al—” She shakes her head. “He paid cash. Never left a tab. When he did card, it was black.” She taps her finger. “Signet ring on his right hand.”
“The crest,” I say, breathless. “Compass? Waves?”
She laughs. “You’d make a good detective, or bartender.”
I dare a smile. “I watch a lot of movies.”
Megan leans closer, and lowers her voice. “He kept the matchbooks. Like a man with secrets thinks he’s romantic.”
“Did he come back after…?” I can’t say after she died. My throat won’t do it.
“Twice,” Megan says. “Alone. Sat at the end and watched the door.” She studies me. “You should be careful.”
“I’ve got a faithful can of pepper spray,” I say, waggling the little cylinder.
“Get a friend,” she says, like a benediction. “Pepper sprays jam. However, friends don’t.”
Not always, the petty part of my heart whispers. I nod anyway. “Thank you.”
Megan glances down the bar, then back at me. “There’s a server who remembered his cologne. Old-school. Vetiver and woods. The kind your dad wore if he sailed.” She wrinkles her nose affectionately. “Said he mentioned the marina once. Something about the ‘north slips’ being for people with no taste.”
“Rich people,” I translate.
“Rich and bored.” She tops off the water glass I didn’t notice she poured for me. “Leave a number. If he shows again, I’ll text you.”
I scribble my number and slide it across. “If you see a man with a ring and that voice… I just want to look him in the eye.”
Megan nods solemnly, and I leave with the heavy certainty of having touched the edge of the thing that cut me.
Next stop, the marina.
The Marina Club sits on the riverbend like a silver shell, all glass and teak and quiet opulence. A woman with hair so smooth it has a reflection stands at the front desk. Her nameplate says Blair. She smells like an expensive candle that grew up near salt water.
“Can I help you?” she asks, professional smile at ninety percent.
“I’m meeting someone,” I improvise. “Nico. He said to meet by the bar.”
“Nico…?” she prompts.
A shrug. “Tall, late thirties, signet ring with your logo. The kind of man who calls the bartender love and gets away with it.”
Something flickers in her pupils—recognition buried under training. “We value our members’ privacy,” she says sweetly.
“Me too,” I say, just as sweet. “I just don’t want to wait in the wrong place.”
Her smile holds. She taps her keyboard. I don’t think she’s actually typing anything; this is a theater of keystrokes. “I can’t confirm member names, but if your friend arrives, he’ll find you. The upstairs lounge is for members and guests.”
I glance over her shoulder. The lounge gleams like a magazine page—low couches, museum lighting, a view of gray water that makes you feel expensive just by looking at it. A woman in a white tennis skirt is laughing at something a man with enviable hair is saying. My grief makes a noise in my throat. Arby would’ve mocked them affectionately and then tried on the skirt.