“Everyone asks about Mia,” Patty said, throwing it out like it was a careless afterthought. But there was something about her stance, about the pinched corners of her lips that belied any attempts at indifference.

They called it a suicide pact. Izzy could guess what people asked about. The rush of anticipation that came before a good interview turned to charcoal in her mouth. There was always someone to be blamed in those situations, and Mia was the one who was left to shoulder it. “The lighthouse.”

Patty nodded. “The lighthouse.”

She said it with just enough suggestion to hint at the scandalous, but with enough familiarity for Izzy to know it was a well-worn phrase. It all made Izzy want to sweep Mia out of the bar. Protect her from invasive, prying eyes. But that wasn’t her job. This, this was her job.

“Twist was asking questions about Mia?” Izzy reiterated, trying to focus on the important part. The guilt and wariness and anger she could deal with later.

Patty was barely paying her attention, anyway. She’d lined herself up at the duct tape with an exaggerated stance that caused all her curves to press against the seams of her clothes. Predictably, her first throw landed dead center.

“You know Mia was the only one who came out of the lighthouse that night,” Patty said, as she aimed her second dart.

“I’d heard something like that.” She couldn’t stop her eyes from finding her partner across the room, where she was holed up in a booth with a tall, dark-haired man. They were just curves and lines in the shadows, and yet still their body language was textbook: suffocating tension.

Patty followed her line of vision. “Those two.” She clicked her tongue before turning back to the board. She landed the second bull’s-eye. “They were all over each other as teens.”

So that was Cash Bishop, then. Izzy glanced back over but still couldn’t make out much.

Patty’s third dart sank into a square on the thinnest ring, earning her enough points to not just beat but crush Izzy’s score. The swing of Patty’s hips was victorious. “Five bucks only gets you one throw, sugar. Come back when you’ve got something else.”

Paying for information was always a gamble, and putting a price on it was even trickier. “What will twenty get me?”

“Oh, you were holding out on me, Detective.” Patty fake pouted, but the smugness underneath the exaggerated disappointment was obvious. She knew that she well and truly had the upper hand now. “Throw in a double shot of whiskey and that’ll get you a few answers.”

Izzy got herself another as well, one she knew she wouldn’t actually drink. But it was a simple trick—it enforced the message that they were drinking buddies, could lull whoever was being questioned into a false sense of security.