As the clock pushed past midnight the hue and tone of the memories changed. Images of my mother gasping as that man, Nick Foley, pulled her into a surprise embrace when he didn’t know I was nearby. Memories of the first time I spied Nick kissing the back of my mother’s neck while she tried to make the bed he shared with his wife. I was so young, I barely understood what I was witnessing.

And when the clock struck three, that’s when the memories were at their darkest. My mother hysterical, blood soaking her shirt—then later, memories of my mother screaming as they led her away.

The memories made me sick. At four in the morning I was on my knees wanting to pray but unable to come up with the name of a God who would listen.

If Lander knows my game, I’ve failed my mother again, this time in only the space of a week.

So now I stand before him as he drinks his whiskey, waiting for him to show his hand.

Lander’s gaze casually sweeps the room. There are more women in the bar than usual tonight. Some of them are actually cute. But he doesn’t show any of them special interest. He simply sips his drink and returns his eyes to me, studying me the way I’ve been studying him.

When he puts the drink down he breaks the silence.

“Why do you work here?” he asks.

“I need a job.”

“There are other jobs.”

“No doubt,” I agree as I take out a rag and wipe some drops of liquor off the bar. “But this is the one I got.”

The spill is gone, but I keep moving the rag back and forth with slow, deliberate movements, making it more of a meditative exercise than anything else. Somewhere on the other side of the room a girl breaks out in hysterical laughter.

“I could get you out of here,” Lander says quietly, “help you find something better.”

The relief hits me with the force of a bullet.

He knows nothing.

And he wants me. I’m sure of that now.

“Are you offering to save me, Lander?” I ask as I drop the rag behind the bar.

He chuckles. It’s a softer sound than the last time he laughed in my presence, a little more loaded. “I’m not the savior type.”

“No, I don’t suppose you are.”

He continues to study me, the drink in front of him seemingly forgotten. “Would you like to come home with me, Bell?”

Now it’s my turn to grin. I look to the left and right, making sure that there’s no one close enough to overhear. Then I gently put my hand over his and lean in so my lips are right against his ear and whisper . . .

“No.”