“I guess I had better things to do than keep promises,” she says.

Martin is pouring two bottles, one in each hand. To Padgett it doesn’t look like enough. “But? So? Yes?”

“Words of more syllables,” she says, “and make it a double.”

The whiskey, clouded with some other ingredient, appears like a topaz in front of her. He spoons in something else, lighter, that floats on top and then ghosts on down. “Rye and lemon,” the barman says, “and then I add the Benedictine last minute. Frisco Sour.”

“I’m sour on Frisco myself.”

Martin leans in to her. “We could do it tomorrow,” he says. It looks theatrical, the lean, overly conspiratorial in a bar with just one other person in it. But it is a conspiracy, is something she is trying not to admit. Padgett doesn’t say anything back, but it’s hard to tell how Martin takes it. “I was about to message you,” he says.

“The threat of a message,” Padgett says, like a narrator, and Martin’s eyes flash.

“The threat of the Vic reading it,” he says, tossing something too hard to the sink. “The threat of the Trail. The threat of fraud uncovered, and divorce.”

The word, spoken out loud, is a rattler in the room. Padgett wants to hiss back but her palms are too freezing cold.

“I deserve this,” Martin says. “Money’s my last chance, Padgett. I have nothing else I can stand on.”

“Nothing,” Padgett says, “but a little child.”

“An heiress,” he corrects.

“If you hurt her—”

“Hurt her,” Martin repeats in easy scorn, but then says, “Don’t get panicky,” and smiles like it’s almost normal. “This is a nonviolent, one-man job.”

“Person,” Padgett says. “And there’s no such thing. It takes you two guys to run a bar.”

“Stanford’s off tonight,” Martin says. “It’s not his job. It’ll be me picking up Kitsune tomorrow, right when you go. I know the route.”

They’re hushed now, and Padgett gives Rachel a tiny glance. Padgett grasps the glass; it’s superhuman of her, she should get a medal, for not having sipped it.

“I’ll bring her here,” Martin says quietly. “She’s easygoing, you always tell me.”

“I do?”

“You do. You told me, you told her you’re not the actual mom and it was water off her back.”

“It was.”

“And then I’ll call the Vic. I have a phone and everything.”

And everything, it sounds like elementary school. Padgett gazes into the whiskey crystal ball trying for answers. She tries and tries and it refuses her. “And what will you say?”

He lifts her drink and sips it. “A little small talk,” he says, “and then, if you want to see your little girl alive again.”

“Are you really going to do this?”

“We are.”