Instead of joining her, though, Izzy started toward the bar. The same man was working the taps again, his broad shoulders stretching out a simple black tee. His arms were covered in a rainbow of fading tattoos that danced under the lights as he slid a wineglass across the wood to one of the customers.

When the person reached out to grab the stem, Izzy realized it was Lacey Bell, in the flesh. The opportunity was too tempting to pass up. Izzy settled in beside her at the bar, keeping one seat between them.

“Eagle Rare.” The bartender pointed at her, already grabbing for the bottle. Izzy didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t her preference. It was like when she’d been nice about a ceramic frog her grandmother had bought her for Christmas one year, and the next thing Izzy knew, everyone in her life started buying them for her. She’d ended up with a sizable collection that she’d felt too guilty to sell online. So now she was just stuck with hundreds of frogs.

Lacey hadn’t looked up during the exchange. She was bent over a bit, her choppy, hipster bob falling in front of her face, hiding it. Once again, she was dressed in an oversize and clearly expensive sweater along with leggings, topped off with a chunky necklace and elaborate dangling earrings.

Her hands were petite but sturdy, with cuts along the knuckles, and chipped black nail polish. She was sketching something on a napkin carelessly.

When she was finished, Lacey pushed it over to Izzy without having once looked up or acknowledging her presence. Izzy grabbed the rough drawing as Lacey lifted the wineglass to her mouth. A glossy red smear coated the rim when she set it back on the bar.

“Monroe,” Lacey said, breaking whatever game of chicken they’d been playing. She finally flicked a glance toward Izzy, her dark makeup playing up her eyes.

Izzy picked up the napkin, tilted it so the low ambient light turned the loose, overlapping lines into something resembling a girl’s face.

The hair was long and straight, black by default of the pen, but judging from Lacey’s coloring, it had probably been that way when she was alive. Most of the other features were similar to Lacey’s, as well—a fox face, with a pointed chin and nose, high cheekbones, and a delicate neck. But Monroe’s lips were plush, too big for her face, and her eyes sloped down, a seductress in training.

Or at least that’s how Lacey had portrayed her.

“Pretty,” Izzy said, opening her fingers so the napkin drifted in slow swoops back down to land on the bar.

“She was,” Lacey agreed easily, swirling the ruby liquid against the sides of her glass. “We were born exactly fourteen months, two weeks, and fourteen hours apart from each other.”

“Nearly Irish twins,” Izzy said, and Lacey’s lips twitched.