Chills run up the back of my spine as my gaze drifts to the end of the bar. I can’t see the man’s face because of the way he’s hunched forward, but the drink in front of him is almost empty now, only a thin layer of brown liquid left in the bottom of the glass.

“If he does want another, he best be ordering it soon,” Joyce says.

Smitty just laughs, but I feel chilled, even though it’s warm and dry inside. I don’t know what’s making me cold now. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

I have got to knock this off. I’m acting like the boogeyman is hiding behind every corner, and it’s ridiculous. My eyes drift to a painting in the far corner of the room, a Monet print, light and airy and full of movement. I used to work with colors like that. My paintings used to dance.

Do they still?

I think about my recent paintings. Themes of time and darkness and shadows. Maybe I lost the colors when Phoebe breathed her last.

I make my way to the table where the others are waiting. They pepper me with questions about the other three occupants of the bar. There’s not much to say, but I recount whatever I can while Harper calls the police. I can’t hear her part of the conversation, but I can watch her talk.

Joyce watches on, her head tilted as she lingers over every word Harper says. Even Smitty quiets at a point, his wide smile vanishing at something Harper mentions. I don’t have to ask. I know she’s talking about hitting Corey.

I can only imagine what this looks like to them. Would I believe our innocence if it was my bar and five strangers walked in admitting they took part in a hit-and-run? Hell, I don’t know if I believe it, and I’m one of us.

I don’t think this looks like a harmless accident. It looks like a crime.

Harper returns to our table, but my eyes drag to the bar where Joyce and Smitty are speaking. They’ve got their heads tilted toward one another, creating a private space where they can confer—no doubt about the phone call they overheard. At the other end of the bar, the stranger remains utterly still, his body curled protectively over his now-empty glass.

Harper slumps in her chair with a heavy sigh, looking uneasy.

“Well?” Brecken asks.

“I told them the basics,” she said.

“Which basics?” Josh asks.

“I told them there was an accident, and that we hit someone but that we were worried about the father being armed, so we left.”

“You told them about the guns behind the counter?” Kayla asks.

Harper nods.

“How about the stolen gas?” I ask. “Did you explain that we tried to pay?”