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“Randy.”

“What?”

“I’m going to ask once more. Then I’m coming to ask in person.”

The bar noise on his end seems to dim. Or maybe he moves somewhere quieter. Smart man. Finally, he says, “There was a guy.”

“What guy?”

“Tall. Light brown hair. Kind of clean cut. But pissed, you know? Like trying not to look pissed because people were watching.”

Tom?

“Did he touch her?”

“I didn’t see that.”

“Did he talk to her?”

“He came in maybe ten minutes after she did. She saw him and went pale. I remember that. He went over, said something. She shook her head. Then they left.”

“Together?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she want to leave?”

“I don’t think so,” he says. “But she walked out with him. Nobody forced her.”

Nobody ever sees force unless a fist is involved.

People think fear has to be loud to count.

Idiots.

“What date was this?” I ask.

“I told you, I don’t⁠—”

“Check receipts.”

“What?”

“She ordered soda water. Ringed in or not?”

He hesitates. “Maybe.”

“Check.”

“I’m working.”

“Then work.”

A muttered curse. Rustling. A door swinging. More noise. Then less. I listen to him breathing while I stare at Maggie’s picture.

Jumpy. Pale. Left with a man.

Randy comes back. “Two Fridays ago. Around ten forty.”