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Multiple sets of eyes turned our way in curiosity. I suspected it was habit to see who was entering the bar, but in our case, our entrance was met with raised eyebrows.

I had taken Alyssa’s advice and forgone the usual uniform I wore of sweater sets and wide legged pants with designer shoes. Instead, I had put on jeans and a basic sweater with boots that could best be described as chunky. They had been a gift from Alyssa’s dad, who had attempted to convince me to learn how to ride a motorcycle. Which had resulted in me screaming on the back of a hog for five minutes straight while my noodle arms clung to his waist in a manner that felt inappropriate, yet necessary for survival.

“I appreciate these boots from your dad.”

“I honestly wish my dad was here right now,” Alyssa said.

“I agree.” I sidled into the dim establishment and found the most open spot at the bar. It was tempting to grab Alyssa’s arm for support but I had to pretend I could handle this.

The bartender approached as we took two stools. He was around sixty, covered in tattoos, sporting a grizzled beard. “What can I get you ladies?”

In the nick of time, I stopped myself from ordering wine. “Uh, a light beer.”

He gave me a funny look but nodded and turned to Alyssa. “How about you?”

“Tito’s on the rocks.”

He seemed to approve her choice more than mine because he smiled. “Sure, sweet thing.”

Alyssa grabbed my knee and squeezed it hard beneath the bar.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from her. She obviously didn’t want to be overheard.

Told you we’d get hit on.

That made me roll my eyes.

Just you.

“Do you recognize any of these customers?” she asked in a low voice, leaning on her elbow so she could talk directly to me, blocking the patrons behind her, presumably so they couldn’t hear her but also as a front so that I would appear to be talking to her while I was actually checking the customers out.

I was impressed with her subterfuge.

Glancing over her shoulder as casually as possible, I took stock of the people present. As to be expected, there was a couple of ancient men nursing drinks, seemingly alone. There was a young couple who arguably were not old enough to be drinking. Then a mixed group of three women and two men of varying ages.

The one woman looked like someone I had seen in James’s pictures.

“Maybe.” I opened my phone and did a casual (in my mind, anyway) check.

Obviously no one else agreed, because the woman slid off her stool and stalked over to me. “What are you doing?”

She looked like she was around forty, heavy eye makeup, a pack of cigarettes tucked into her bra. She also looked menacing, completely different from the cheerful pics I’d seen of her posted online.

“Uh, just having a beer?” I couldn’t help it. My voice rose at the end, turning the statement into a question.

“I’ve never seen you here before and you’re messing with your phone too much. Are you taking my picture? I’m not drinking.”

Alyssa jumped in. “No one is taking your picture. Everyone our age messes with their phone too much. It’s a national plague.”

“I don’t care if you’re drinking or not,” I assured her.

“You look like a social worker.”

There it was. I didn’t even have a sweater set on. “I’m not a social worker.”

“I’m not losing custody of my kids again.” She scowled at me.

I tried to smile reassuringly. “I’m not with CPS. I’m just wondering if anyone here knows anything about James Kwaitkowski.”