“Promise.”
“It’s called Broken Men.”
Good thing she isn’t genuinely interested in Milo, because he is waving a big red flag right in her face.
She laughs. “That’s quite a name.”
“Like I said, it started as a joke. It wasn’t like we planned it.”
“So is that what you are?” she says. “A broken man?”
“My therapist doesn’t think so.”
A nice save, mentioning his therapist, but she still doesn’t care. Milo will have to be some other woman’s problem. But she continues talking and flirting, and accepts the drink he offers to buy her.
“So if I say the wrong thing,” she says, “am I going to end up a story on your podcast?”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
She doesn’t believe him, but the question does make him recount the stories he tells on the show. He keeps talking until a burst of laughter from the middle of the bar interrupts the conversation. Ivy knows it’s coming from the table where Wes is sitting and forces herself not to look over there. She glances at Heath and gives him a tiny nod. He discreetly holds up his phone.
In the mirror, she sees that the group of girls is leaving. So is Wes. They all walk out of the bar together.
“It was really nice talking to you,” she says to Milo, “but I’ve got to meet some friends for dinner.”
Milo asks for her number. She gives it to him, though she can’t imagine dating a self-described broken man. It somehow seems preferable when a man is clueless about how damaged he is. Milo is the type who tells women in advance how screwed up he is so he can use it as an excuse later.
Heath walks out before she does, and they meet outside. He holds up his phone, showing her the pictures he took. Her and Milo, together at the bar. Talking. Laughing. Smiling.
Perfect.
* * *
—
Farrah unlocks the door to her place and holds it open. “Come on in.”
Wes does as he’s told.
She lives in a tiny apartment, basically a studio with a curtain walling off the bed. She has fabric on the walls, too, and a crystal-looking chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It feels like he has walked into a music box.
Not a bad thing.
“I have wine,” she says. “Pinot grigio?”
“That’s perfect.”
He sits down on the overstuffed couch, which feels as comfortable as it looks. It’s still a little shocking he’s here. When he and Marcus first approached that table full of girls, he never expected to end up at the brunette’s house.
It didn’t happen right away. They left Liver in a big group, and the night continued over several hours, multiple locations, and a lot of drinks and food. Wes and Farrah live relatively close together, and she had asked if he wanted to share an Uber. He did.
“That last bar was so loud, wasn’t it?” Farrah says. She returns from her tiny kitchen—more like a kitchenette—with two glasses.
“It was loud.” He takes a sip. Cheap wine. Doesn’t matter.
“So you were telling me about disc golf.”
Right. Disc golf. She’s never played before, and he was trying to explain the game to her. He finishes describing it, watching the way she listens, nods, comments without interrupting. She really is cute, and not just because he’s been drinking.
Eventually, he leans in to kiss her. She kisses him back, hard, and pulls him in closer.
Right before she pushes him away.
“Sorry,” she says. “I mean . . . we just met.”
Ah. Okay. “You’re right. We did.”
“I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression by inviting you over. I was just having such a good time talking to you,” she says.
“I like talking to you, too.”
She smiles. He takes another sip of wine and wonders what time it is. Must be getting late, and he has to work in the morning. But if he leaves right now, he’s the bad guy. Can’t even risk a glance at his watch.
Farrah starts talking about hiking, a subject he is genuinely interested in, but right now he’s counting down the minutes until he can leave. He isn’t looking for someone to date, and he’s definitely not looking for a new relationship. Just a hookup, someone to distract him from everything else.
Farrah is not it.
That doesn’t stop him from getting her number on the way out, or from giving his number to her, only because he would be a dick if he didn’t.
On the ride home, he plans the morning in his head. Every choice has consequences, including the ones he made tonight. Now he’ll have to take an Uber to pick up his car and then drive to work. He thinks about seeing Abigail in the office. She certainly saw him and Marcus leave the bar with all those girls. Not that she would care, but still. Her opinion matters.
And he thinks of Ivy. Always Ivy.
He checks his phone for messages. Nothing from her. But she has posted a photo from Liver on IG. The guy with the beard.
40
Karen hesitates before knocking on the door. Her nerves flare up, along with the alarm bell in her head. The one that says you’re doing something wrong. She pushes through it, forcing herself to raise her hand. Sometimes, the result is the most important thing. Not how you got there.
She knocks three times and waits, listening for movement from inside. A bit of shuffling, the creak of the floor. Thin doors and walls can be an occasional benefit of cheap construction.
When the door doesn’t open, Karen knocks again.
“I don’t have anything to say.” Bianca’s voice comes through loud and clear.
Karen takes out her police ID and holds it up to the peephole. “Miss Mercado, I’m a detective with the Fair Valley Police Department.”
Another creak from inside the apartment, followed by a sharp click. The door opens. Bianca stands before her, dressed in leggings and a T-shirt, no makeup, her hair in a messy ponytail. She looks about sixteen.
“I remember you,” Bianca says. “You’re the one who came to see Wes.”
“That’s right,” Karen says, holding up a plain shopping bag. “And I have something to return to you.”
“You have to contact my lawyer.”
“This isn’t about Tanner Duncan. I’m here on another matter.”
Bianca stares at her for a moment before opening the door a little wider, allowing Karen to enter. As she does, Karen gets a good look at Bianca’s eyes. Dilated pupils. Valium, maybe. Can’t blame her. She wouldn’t be human if she didn’t have nightmares about that blood.
Her living room isn’t spic-and-span clean, but it’s neat enough. Bianca had obviously been lying in front of the TV when Karen knocked. The position of the pillow, blanket, and remote tell her that.
Off to the left, there’s a round table with two chairs, and a tiny kitchen next to it. A basic starter apartment with inexpensive furniture, mostly secondhand. Nothing unusual about it.
Karen perches herself on the edge of a chair that looks like a basket. Bianca plunks down on the couch.
“How are you doing?” Karen asks.
“Okay.”
“I imagine this has been very difficult.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill him,” she says. “I told the other detectives that. I just wanted him off of me. Away from me.”