“Christ,” JJ muttered. “Seems there’s nothing I can’t fuck up.”

She hugged herself tight, and said nothing.

“You’re sure he’s here?” he said a few minutes later, nosing his car into a vacant spot on First Street just a couple buildings down from Shorty’s Pub.

She nodded. She felt hot and cold at once. “I didn’t tell you. We had a terrible fight.”

“He’s lucky, then. You’re a good girl.”

Her skin crawled with shame. She tried to think of something to say; couldn’t.

“Take it easy, Dolly. Good luck.”

She exhaled; it was a relief that he was going to let her go without a fight. Just like with Anne, she realized, he was doing the honorable thing. “Thank you,” she said. She was beginning to dread the task that awaited her inside Shorty’s.

“You’d better go.”

She opened up the car door, and watched her ballet slippers step out. First one, and then the other. She stood, closed the door behind her, and fluffed her hair with her fingers. Behind her, JJ’s car backed out of the parking space; she glanced at him through the windshield, intending to wave good-bye, but he was looking over his shoulder to back up, and even when he was out of the parking spot and shifting into gear, he didn’t look in her direction. She felt a sudden emptiness, watching him go, but she knew it had to be.

A man held the door open for her, giving her an appreciative going-over as she walked past him. She glared at him, then turned to survey the room for Byron. The place was packed. All the stools at the bar were occupied by men with heavy-lidded eyes and three-day stubble, clad in flannel and jeans. They were silent types, but the rest of the place was filled with laughter and chatter, the businessmen with their wives huddled around booths drinking martinis, the loose women milling about preying on the white-collared men who were there without wives. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and reeked of alcohol and grilled bratwurst. At first, Dolly didn’t see Byron anywhere. As she ventured deeper into the crowded room, the stolid men on the bar stools turned their heads, watching her.

Then she recognized Roy, in a booth toward the back. A man Dolly didn’t know sat next to him. She saw the side of Byron’s head; he was sitting across from Roy, with his back to where Dolly had come in. They all had their hands wrapped around beer bottles, their elbows on the table. As she watched, Byron lifted his bottle to his lips and tipped his head back to take a drink.