Sean agreed that it sounded like the best plan, but she could see the tension in his face.
“It’l be al right,” she said. “If he does come in, let me try to talk to him. If I can get him alone for a little while, I’l know pretty quickly whether or not there’s any point in staying and talking to him. If he shuts me down, we get out of there right away, okay?”
“Okay,” Sean said, reluctant but wil ing to go along. “That sounds like a plan.”
THE BAR WAS CALLED THE THIRSTY BEAVER, AND IT WENT
DOWNHILL from there. It wasn’t much more than a large shack and a gravel parking lot one-third ful with pickup trucks and a few beat-up sedans. Hannah and Sean went inside. There was a scattering of tables and chairs between the entrance doors and the bar, which took up the entire length of the far wal of the bar. There was a dance floor too, with a single, sad-looking disco bal . Most of the dance floor was taken up by three large pool tables and two of the tables were already in use—hard men in sleeveless shirts that exposed tattooed and muscled arms and covered generous beer bel ies. Stil , the place was less intimidating than the outside had led Hannah to expect. Most of the tables set out for dining were empty, but there were four couples seated and eating, and six or seven drinkers, comfortable enough to be regulars, were hanging out at the far end of the bar. The barmaid—she was in her thirties, with shiny dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail—looked up and smiled at Hannah.
“Get you?” she said.
“Are you stil serving food?” Hannah asked. “Could we have a look at the menu?” The bartender gestured over her shoulder to a blackboard on the wal behind her.
“It’s just what’s there, sweetheart. We do burgers and fries, that’s about it, but we do them wel and we do them fast.”
“Sounds good,” Hannah said. She ordered a cheeseburger and fries and a bottle of Coors Light and Sean did the same. The bartender got them their beer and cal ed their order into the kitchen.
Hannah and Sean found a table and with no one else waiting on her, the barmaid made her way to the far end of the bar, where she leaned on the pitted wooden counter, dishcloth in hand, and spoke with the regulars.
SEAN AND HANNAH HAD FINISHED THEIR BURGERS AND
ORDERED A second beer before Sam and two friends made their way inside. Sean saw them first—he touched Hannah’s arm to get her attention and they watched Sam and his friends for a moment. It was obvious that they had already been drinking; though they weren’t drunk, just lubricated in that louche, relaxed, bright-eyed way of the very young at the beginning of a night out. They made their way over to the last free pool table, then Sam came to the bar and bought three bottles of beer. He had no trouble getting served, and he talked to the barmaid like he knew her. By the time he returned to the pool table his friends had already set up and started the first game. Sam pul ed over a stool and sat and watched, exchanging banter with his friends. Hannah wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said, but the vibe between them al was friendly and relaxed.
“I’m not sure what to do,” Hannah said. “Do I just go over there?”
“Maybe we should both go,” Sean said.
Hannah shook her head. “I think, if the aim is to keep things low-key and nonconfrontational, we’d better be as unintimidating as possible.” She stood up, straightened her shirt. “Wish me luck.” She didn’t wait for Sean to naysay her. She walked across the bar. Nel y Furtado was playing on the bar’s speakers and the music gave a lift to her feet, gave her hips a swing she hadn’t intended. Al three boys looked up at her approach and there was a suggestion of appreciation, a hint of anticipation.
“Hi,” she said, directing her attention at Sam.
“Hi,” he said. He looked surprised and pleased. He sat up a bit straighter on his stool.
“You’re Sam, aren’t you?”
Surprise and a hint of confusion on his face. “Yes,” he said.
“My name’s Hannah. I’m a law student at the University of Virginia. I’m real y sorry to interrupt your night with your friends. But I wondered if you’d let me buy you a beer and talk to me for a few minutes about the Michael Dandridge case.”
He flinched—whatever he had expected from her it hadn’t been that. She felt rather than saw his friends move closer. They’d either heard what she’d said or picked up on the change of energy.
“I promise I’m not here to make you uncomfortable, or change your mind about anything. I can’t imagine what you and your family have been through.” The horror of what he had been through struck her suddenly and she realized that despite her words she hadn’t truly given thought or time or brain space to him. To what it must have been like to lose your mother in that brutal way, when you were just a little boy. It might have been the beer or it might have been the strain of the situation or the fact that he suddenly looked so young, but she found that her eyes were fil ing with tears. “I’m sorry . . .”