A face appeared beside me. “Crap, I’m sorry, are you—”

“Drenched? Yes, I am.”

“That was a good beer you had, too.”

“It was.”

“That’s not right. That beer was just minding its own business. Christ, can’t a beer sit at a bar and be left alone?”

I was using stiff little napkins to draw the liquid from my top, and when I finally looked up at the guy who’d wasted my pint, I saw his face was crinkled with amusement. There was something familiar about that face, tenuous as a long-forgotten memory. He had an average build and bangs long enough to flip back the way men his age like to do. The color of his eyes was startling, like snow in the moonlight or ice on a creek. I waited for the grimace I knew would come. Up close my scar looks like a long seam holding together my jaw and my cheek. It’s not especially gruesome, not anymore, but it sends a message—something awful happened here. People think my bad luck’s going to wear off on them. Most aren’t willing to take that chance.

The guy’s eyes met mine. Somehow in the midst of our banter he’d ordered me a fresh beer. He slid it toward me and smiled.

“God,” he said, “these places. Why do I come?”

“For the scenery?” I nodded at the bar babes.

Ignoring them, he held my gaze. “You might be right. I’m Seth, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m Shay, and it’s okay.”

It was easy for us from the start. We were actors in a play, effortlessly lobbing lines back and forth as if we’d rehearsed the moment for months. There were no awkward pauses, no discouraging lulls. I’ve done some research into mental manipulation, the kind of stuff psychics with their neon signs and crystal balls use to fool people into thinking they’re real. The man I met that night relied on a technique called the Barnum Statement. His insights were so surface level and vague they could have applied to anyone. He told me I seemed like the independent type and guessed I had a lot on my mind. Sitting alone at the bar, preoccupied with the case, I convinced myself he’d nailed it. The pub filled and emptied, patrons flowing in and out like water in a tide pool. We talked until closing time.

“Last call,” the bartender said. There was a chorus of groans from the end of the bar and one of the women drinking cocktails hiccuped loudly. Only then did I realized I, too, was drunk. When I pushed back my stool to stand, my head felt like an hourglass filling with sand. I made a sound of surprise and listed sideways. The edge of the bar felt slippery, like someone coated it with oil. My eyes rolled in their sockets, two greasy marbles in the palm of a hand. Including the one that got spilled, I’d had only three pints all night. I’d gotten up to use the bathroom just once, timing my departure with the bottom of my pint. I knew better than to trust a strange man around my drink. So why couldn’t my body connect with my brain?