“Another beer?” He pointed to her empty glass. He had a New England accent and he looked like a talker.

“Nah, switch me to your cocktail of the night, if that’s okay.”

He nodded. “I made this one up myself. It’s on the sweeter side if that’s okay...?” He was mimicking her, but in a friendly way.

She gave him a thumbs-up and he came back two minutes later with brown sludge in a martini glass.

“Coffee-flavored,” she said, taking a sip. “It’s good.”

“You know where I get that? Rhode Island, baby. It’s coffee syrup. Grew up on that stuff. I call that a New England Russian. I tried this out on another guy who came in here, and he loved it. Makes sense—he was from New England, too.”

“Coffee syrup?” She said it out loud, though she hadn’t meant to. She’d heard that before...

He showed her the bottle and Rainy had a sudden, dizzying sense of déjà vu.

“I drank white Russians in college,” she said. “It’s my kind of drink.” He looked pleased enough that he wandered away to offer his New England Russian to some fresh new faces on the other side of the bar.

“You waiting on someone?” he asked, coming back around fifteen minutes later.

“Four female someones,” she answered.

He nodded. “Bachelorette party?”

Rainy played along. “Sure.”

He scooped up her empty glass. “Another?”

She shook her head. “I’ll close out.” His concoction was curdling in her belly as she signed the receipt.

“Hey, I know you girls like to party hard when you come here, and I like you. So, listen up—whatever you do, do not buy drugs from Barry. He works at the Bellum, but he comes around to all the hotels within a few blocks.” He was pouring someone else’s beer but looking at her. “Last week, that little bastard sold roofies to four girls here. He told them it was cocaine, and they all ended up in the ER. I served them before they left—just like you. I told them to stay away from Barry, too, but do you think they listened?”

Rainy gave him a look that was part fear for what was happening in her stomach, and part interest. He glommed on to the interest part.

“He’s a New Englander, too. You’ll know that slimebag because he wears a fanny pack. But don’t worry about it. You’re a nice girl.”

The nice girl felt better when she got up from the bar stool to walk around some more. She’d just bought herself a water at a little grocery in the lobby when Braithe texted her to say they were coming down.