Page 16 of The Locked Ward

Happy hour at Sweetbay’s is always a crowded time, especially since I started offering a five-dollar build-your-own-nachos bar, although my bartender Scott is probably responsible for some of our success, too.

Women love him—and the way his muscles flex when he holds up a shaker to mix their drinks.

I’m carrying a case of Heineken out from the walk-in fridge in the back of my bar when I catch a glimpse of a man’s reflection in the mirrored wall by the front door. My shoe skids on something slick and I nearly drop the beer.

It looks like Reece DuPont, the man who questioned me at Annabelle’s funeral.

He’s in a group with a few other guys, his back to me, in an Eagles cap and a T-shirt and jeans. He’s wearing glasses today, which he wasn’t at the funeral.

But I’m pretty sure it was his profile I caught sight of in the mirror.

“Excuse me!” I yell. I set the heavy box of beer on the end of the bar and make my way through the crowd, trying to get to the man.

Someone wraps an arm around my shoulders, their boozy breath warm against my cheek, and I instinctively elbow them hard in the gut, then spin around, my foot lifted to stomp on their instep.

“Whoa, Mand, what’s up girl?” It’s Ruben, one of my favorite regulars.

“Sorry.” I lower my foot. My heart is pounding, and I realize my hands have come up to defend myself.

He rubs the side of his stomach. “Good thing I’ve got a lot of padding.”

I look in the direction of the man again, but I can’t see him anymore. It’s like he evaporated.

I take a deep breath and order myself to get it together. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” I tell Ruben. “Are you cheating on me with another bar?”

He grins, showing an appealing gap between his front teeth.

“I got a job in Norfolk. I’m moving next week.”

“Hey, congrats!” This time I don’t have to force my enthusiasm. Ruben’s been through a tough stretch lately, with his girlfriend breaking up with him and his being between jobs.

“Do a shot with us.” He leans over the bar and orders six Fireball shots, passing a few to his buddies. It isn’t unusual for me to have a beer while I work, but I steer away from shots. Not tonight, though. I’m so on edge I need one.

I clink my glass against Ruben’s, then swallow the syrupy red liquid, feeling the burn down my chest. I lick the spicy cinnamon from my lips, then chat with Ruben for another few minutes. Before I move on, I lean over and discreetly tell Scott to comp his bill.

All the while, I keep scanning the crowd at the bar.

Maybe it wasn’t Reece I spotted, I finally acknowledge.

I only caught that split-second glimpse in the mirror, and half the guys who come into my bar wear caps and T-shirts.

And I’ve been preoccupied ever since I learned about Georgia.

I took a wrong turn on the way to work today, a route I’ve driven countless times.

My mind could have been playing tricks on me.

Besides, how would he have found me? I didn’t give him my last name, and no one at the service knew who I was.

Then my heart plummets as I remember the checkpoints.

Maybe there was invisible security, too.

Like cameras to record every license plate that passed through.

If mine was captured, it would be easy for someone with the kind of power the Cartwright family has to link it to my name and get the address of my bar.

I walk to the end of the bar and flip open the hinged counter. I’m being paranoid, I tell myself.

It hits me a split second later: That’s exactly what I thought about Georgia when she claimed she’d be killed if I didn’t get her out of the psych ward.

My eyes seek out the photograph of my parents on the high bar shelf.

If they were here, we’d be in this together.

I can feel my throat thicken, so I look at the St. Michael the Archangel statue they gave me, displayed next to their picture.

The powerful message on its pouch— Protect Me Always —centers me.

I try to lose myself in the busyness of my bar, dealing with a credit card machine that’s acting up, restocking the napkin holders, and collecting empties from the booths and high-top tables. I don’t stop moving until the happy hour crowd has died down.

Once everything is under control, I grab a glass of ice water and head to my little office in the back, where I plan to get a start on payroll.

I unlock the door and see my cell phone, which I’ve left charging on my desk, has a new message. I pick it up and see the now familiar words in the call log: Private Caller .

The message is from Milt Daniels, the public defender. He wants me to come and pick up my sister’s belongings.