Page 50 of Make Them Bleed

“Nico something-with-an-A,” Megan says slowly. “Ar—Arno? Al—” She shakes her head. “He paid cash. Never left a tab. When he did card, it was black.” She taps her finger. “Signet ring on his right hand.”

“The crest,” I say, breathless. “Compass? Waves?”

She laughs. “You’d make a good detective, or bartender.”

I dare a smile. “I watch a lot of movies.”

Megan leans closer, and lowers her voice. “He kept the matchbooks. Like a man with secrets thinks he’s romantic.”

“Did he come back after…?” I can’t sayafter she died. My throat won’t do it.

“Twice,” Megan says. “Alone. Sat at the end and watched the door.” She studies me. “You should be careful.”

“I’ve got a faithful can of pepper spray,” I say, waggling the little cylinder.

“Get a friend,” she says, like a benediction. “Pepper sprays jam. However, friends don’t.”

Not always,the petty part of my heart whispers. I nod anyway. “Thank you.”

Megan glances down the bar, then back at me. “There’s a server who remembered his cologne. Old-school. Vetiver and woods. The kind your dad wore if he sailed.” She wrinkles her nose affectionately. “Said he mentioned the marina once. Something about the ‘north slips’ being for people with no taste.”

“Rich people,” I translate.

“Rich and bored.” She tops off the water glass I didn’t notice she poured for me. “Leave a number. If he shows again, I’ll text you.”

I scribble my number and slide it across. “If you see a man with a ring and that voice… I just want to look him in the eye.”

Megan nods solemnly, and I leave with the heavy certainty of having touched the edge of the thing that cut me.

Next stop, the marina.

The Marina Club sits on the riverbend like a silver shell, all glass and teak and quiet opulence. A woman with hair so smooth it has a reflection stands at the front desk. Her nameplate says Blair. She smells like an expensive candle that grew up near salt water.

“Can I help you?” she asks, professional smile at ninety percent.

“I’m meeting someone,” I improvise. “Nico. He said to meet by the bar.”

“Nico…?” she prompts.

A shrug. “Tall, late thirties, signet ring with your logo. The kind of man who calls the bartenderloveand gets away with it.”

Something flickers in her pupils—recognition buried under training. “We value our members’ privacy,” she says sweetly.

“Me too,” I say, just as sweet. “I just don’t want to wait in the wrong place.”

Her smile holds. She taps her keyboard. I don’t think she’s actually typing anything; this is a theater of keystrokes. “I can’t confirm member names, but if your friend arrives, he’ll find you. The upstairs lounge is for members and guests.”

I glance over her shoulder. The lounge gleams like a magazine page—low couches, museum lighting, a view of gray water that makes you feel expensive just by looking at it. A woman in a white tennis skirt is laughing at something a man with enviable hair is saying. My grief makes a noise in my throat. Arby would’ve mocked them affectionately and then tried on the skirt.

“Can I see the slips?” I ask. “Just—outside?”

Blair considers. “There’s a public boardwalk along the east side. Past the gate.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, and angle left.

Outside, the wind ramps up. Boats clack against their cleats. Seagulls perform a crime spree overhead. Along the boardwalk, I pass a series of plaques with donors’ names etched in brass. I run my finger over each one like a diviner, not sure what I’m hoping to feel.

Third plaque from the gate:NEREUS MARINE LLC – Legacy Slip D4. An anchor engraved beneath the name.