“Come and gone.” Max was already moving toward the bottles, and Mia snuffed out the flicker of relief his answer brought. “Still an Eagle Rare girl?”

She wasn’t. She wasn’t an anything kind of girl. At most she had white wine at work parties where it would be noted if she didn’t imbibe. But she nodded.

“On the house,” he said, winking as he slid the tumbler across the scarred wood.

“Make that two.” Izzy, who had lagged behind Mia, probably scoping out the exits, shuffled up beside her. There was a pause, and then Max reached for a second glass, reluctant. On the house was limited to islanders.

“Cheers, love.” There was a teasing note in Izzy’s voice as she took the drink, seemingly unruffled.

Max ignored her, still looking at Mia. “We’ll catch up, yeah?” But he was already walking away. It was the kind of empty promise that dressed up disinterest in kind words. And it worked for her, as she had no desire to chat about her life.

They weaved through the high tops that were set up near the entrance and then made their way toward the back.

“Sammy apparently left already,” Mia said quietly, so as not to be overheard. The last thing they needed was for someone to get it in their minds that the mainland cops were talking about Sammy Bowdoin.

“Convenient,” Izzy said, just as softly.

Mia shrugged as they slid into the second-to-last booth.

“You’ve got to explain this island, man,” Izzy said, twisting enough so that her back was against the wall, Mia mirroring the position almost without thought. This wasn’t somewhere she was comfortable leaving herself vulnerable. “It feels like it’s got its own set of rules.”

She brought the glass to her lips. Despite her hesitancy to drink, there were certain things that were comforting in life, like Michael Jackson on the neon jukebox in the corner and Eagle Rare still tasting like silk and summer nights against her tongue. “There’s no explaining St. Lucy’s.”

“Try,” Izzy countered, lifting her own tumbler for an experimental sip. Her mouth pulled back in a tight grimace, but then she shrugged and took a hefty swallow.

They sat in silence for a bit, but it was comfortable. Izzy wasn’t pushing, and Mia was trying to figure out where to start.

“Survival,” Mia finally said.

Izzy had been watching the old fishermen at the table next to theirs. Mia recognized them but didn’t remember their names. They hadn’t glanced over once, for which Mia was thankful.

“What?” Izzy asked.

“Everything here is about survival,” Mia said, her finger tracing the rim of her glass. “We survive because we rely on each other. The minute outlanders start encroaching on that, we go on defense.”

“You’re talking like you’re still one of them,” Izzy commented, though there was no accusation, only curiosity, in the tilt of her head.