Page 4 of Last Call (Open Tab #5)

A mess. That’s what it was—a goddamn mess. Fallon tilted her head back, glaring at the stained ceiling of the pub as if her frustration alone could mend the hole. She cursed under her breath, a litany of words she didn’t care to filter. More money flushed down the toilet—or up to the ceiling.

“Fucking roof,” she muttered. “I just fixed that pipe! What else is going to break? Why did I ever think this was a good idea?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Jerry Walker offered, his tone maddeningly calm.

Fallon snorted. “Bad enough.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

Fallon rubbed her temples, willing her growing headache to subside. “I should rename this place Murphy’s Law.”

“Could be catchy,” Jerry said with a shrug. “Maybe you should.”

“Yeah, maybe I will.”

“Hey.”

The familiar voice made Fallon turn. She sighed as her brother stepped into the room with his hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes casually assessed the tree branch jutting through the roof like a decoration someone had forgotten to take down.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Mom sent you to check on the disaster.”

Dean smirked. “Could be worse.”

“That seems to be the consensus,” Fallon replied dryly.

“Well, you’ve still got lights.” Dean gestured to the still-glowing fixtures. “That means you’ve got power.”

“For now,” Fallon muttered.

“Better than the electrical fire last month.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that your idea of looking on the bright side?”

“Absolutely. It means the beer you had delivered yesterday is still cold. Isn’t this a bar? Are you going to keep staring at the roof, or can I get a pint?”

Fallon laughed. Only her brother could breeze past the chaos to focus on a drink. “You know where it is,” she said.

Dean wandered toward the bar while Fallon’s gaze drifted back to the gaping hole in the roof. Two weeks. That’s all she had before reopening The Middle Ground. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Reviving the bar her father had loved wasn’t her lifelong dream.

It was a tribute, a way of honoring James Foster’s memory.

The Middle Ground had always been his place, “the joint,” he called it.

Her eyes drifted to the far corner of the bar where he’d hold court, a pint in one hand and a whiskey in the other.

Fallon had loved tagging along on those afternoons after a day of fishing or yard work.

She could still hear the clink of coins hitting the jukebox and the crack of pool balls breaking.

Dave Scott, the old owner, had always been generous with Shirley Temples and quarters for the games.

Her father’s friends spun tall tales, each trying to outdo the last. Those afternoons had been perfect—simple, noisy, and full of life.

She remembered the last time her father came home from the pub, quiet and pensive, as if the stories had dried up. That silence lingered with her, urging her to breathe life back into his old haunt.

Dean’s voice snapped her out of the memory. “Seriously, it’s not that bad. Right, Jerry?”

“Nah,” Jerry said, scratching his chin. “I could probably knock it out in a week.”

“What if you had some extra hands?” Dean asked.

Jerry eyed him skeptically. “Capable hands?”

Dean grinned. “Yeah. I’ve done a little roofing. Fallon’s helped, too.”

“Not since high school,” Fallon reminded him as she rounded the bar.

“It’ll come back to you,” Dean said. “Unless you’d rather have an open-air bar for your grand opening.”

“It would speed things up,” Jerry agreed.

Fallon sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Fine. I’ll help.”

Dean clapped her on the back. “Look on the bright side, Sis.”

“There’s another bright side?” Fallon asked warily.

I’ll bet Liv would love to see you in a toolbelt,” Dean said.

Fallon flushed. “I don’t need a toolbelt.”

Dean ducked as she hurled a roll of paper towels at him. “I’m sure you don’t,” he said.

Fallon laughed. At least she wouldn’t be tackling this disaster alone.

February 2019

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

Sometimes, preparedness was impossible. Fallon looked across the table at Angela Miller and reminded herself to breathe. “Thanks for meeting me,” Fallon said.

“I wasn’t sure I would hear from you,” Angela confessed.

“I wasn’t sure I’d call.”

Angela took a sip from her coffee cup. “Have you spoken to Dean?”

“A little. He’d hoped to visit this month. I don’t know what he’s doing in Europe. I don’t even know if he’s still in Europe,” Fallon replied. “Dean is—well, I’m not sure if he’s protective of me, Liv, or if he’s covering his ass.”

“I’m sure it’s probably a little of everything,” Angela said.

“Probably. I know he didn’t tell me everything he could .

But he did say he hadn’t talked to Liv in a few weeks.

I also know he’d stopped helping her financially.

I suspect he was helping her with more than money.

If he was, I’m sure that also ended. To be honest, I don’t know what to think about anything. ”

“I know you have questions.”

Fallon had endless questions. She wasn’t sure where to begin, and she doubted any of the answers would satisfy her.

“Look, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Angela offered.

“The problem is, I’m not sure what I want to know,” Fallon replied.

“It’s hard to understand. I know it is,” Angela confessed. “I won’t lie to you. I hoped you’d already spoken with Dean.”

“I know Liv was helping people—women. I got that from some of the things you gave me. Dean shared the basics about Davis’s activities when he called me.

I still don’t get it,” Fallon said. “I don’t understand why Liv didn’t take this to someone above her.

Why didn’t she go to the authorities? Christ, Angela, she worked for the government.

And Dean? How does my brother fit into this? I don’t understand.”

“She tried to get help,” Angela replied.

“To get people above her to listen. They listen , Fallon. They don’t act.

It takes years to catch these people—decades sometimes—if you’re lucky.

What Liv stumbled on isn’t the work of street pimps.

These people are connected. They have the money and influence to cover their tracks.

And what is justice? What does that look like?

By the time anyone is arrested, the damage has been done.

An arrest doesn’t stop anything. It might slow a network down.

Another one always pops up. Liv said it was like a high-stakes game of Whack-A-Mole. ”

Fallon offered the hint of a smile. She easily imagined Liv speaking those words.

“It’s bigger than one person,” Angela said. “Or one group. Liv would have loved to shut down every trafficker she discovered. Most are part of a bigger network. It’s like cleaving off a hand. There’s still another one to pick up the work.”

Listening to Angela made Fallon feel like she was playing a part in a movie. Things like this didn’t happen in real life. Except they did. She knew that. She never expected anything like this to touch her life.

“Our father,” Angela began, “He didn’t procure girls for common Johns,” she explained.

“He looked for the right girls—the most vulnerable. It makes me sick to call him a groomer. That’s what he was.

He built the trust of na?ve women—if you could call most of them women.

Then he set them up with high-ranking military officers, politicians, and civilian contractors.

It’s not easy to bring those kinds of people down.

They’re connected—far more connected than Liv could claim.

In other words, they’re protected. What my father did paled in comparison to what Liv discovered.

She wanted to get as many girls as possible out .

She became more determined after she found out that my mother was one of Davis’s girls.

I think she felt guilty, Fallon. None of it was her doing or her fault .

I told her that. That didn’t seem to matter to her. ”

A wave of nausea roiled Fallon’s gut. “She worshiped her father. I get that much,” Fallon said. “But to put herself in danger?”

“I could tell you it’s not dangerous. It’s a risky game.

Liv wasn’t a vigilante. She didn’t rush in, guns blazing like you see on television.

She was a buyer. She paid money for the girls.

She isn’t the only person out there purchasing someone’s freedom.

She was probably one of the most prolific.

The more you do business with these people, the more they want. ”

“Financially?” Fallon asked.

“Of course. I think people felt Liv’s desperation.

Somewhere along the way, she forgot the people she was dealing with were masters at exploitation.

Liv was a master manipulator. It’s not the same thing.

Her talents weren’t a match for their abilities.

She tried to play the game. No one likes someone who threatens their livelihood.

If Liv got caught, that would create a traceable line to the people she did business with. High risk equals higher prices.”

“Jesus. You’re telling me these women were property?”

Angela nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.

Liv got a lot of girls and women out of that situation.

Sometimes, it was just one. Other times, she negotiated for a half-dozen.

Her methods weren’t just unorthodox. Making a purchase, no matter what the intention, is trafficking.

Liv had to worry about the FBI and the people she did business with coming after her, the FBI with charges. The others…”

“Are you telling me Liv was in physical danger?”

“I’m certain there was danger. Mainly, that happened because she was running dry.”

“She needed money. She could have asked me for help,” Fallon said.

Angela smiled. “I think we both know she wouldn’t have done that.”

“And Dean?” Fallon asked.

“He took a lot of meetings,” Angela said. “Until he didn’t.”

“He helped find the networks, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Fallon took a deep breath. “Why was she in Vermont?”

“She had some things to settle.”