“My roommate should be home.” Texting furiously, she slid back into the booth. Conor cleared away the booze, brought her a Diet Coke, and left her watching ESPN. She was still there an hour later when Ernie and the kitchen staff were clearing out.

“Did you get your roommate?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ll take the subway.”

She is not your responsibility. Conor backed away. He needed a pretty college girl about as much as a rash. Both tended to hang around long enough to make life uncomfortable. “And there’s nobody else you can call? Do you want me to call you a cab?”

She shook her head and batted those thick lashes again. “No. I take the subway all the time. It’s fine.”

He glanced out the window. In the light of the streetlamp on the corner, a figure in a hoodie hunched against the rain. South Philly was generally safe during the day. A working-class neighborhood, people looked out for each other. Families tended to stay generation after generation. But a young girl alone at midnight . . .

“Do you want me to drive you to the station?”

“Would you do that?”

“Sure.” Because he was a giant idiot genetically incapable of minding his own business. He’d parked his car illegally in the alley. He had to move it anyway. And that guy on the corner gave off the wrong vibe.

Besides, the sooner he got her out of here, the sooner he could go to bed.

“Oh, thank you.”

“Come on. My car is out back.” Conor locked the front door to the bar and led her out into the back alley. The rain had settled into a steady, soaking drizzle. No sign of anyone or anything that shouldn’t be here.

Conor patted his pocket. “I have to run upstairs for my key. Wait here.”

But she was right behind him as he jogged up the stairs to his apartment over the bar. Conor flipped on the light. His keys were usually on the table by the door. Not there.

Zoe sidled behind him. “I didn’t want to wait in the dark by myself.”

“OK. Wait here. I have to find my keys.” Conor did a quick surface scan. Nothing. The kitchen counters were clear. In the bedroom, he went to the nightstand, moved some books, and shuffled some papers before finding his key ring on the dresser under a stack of junk mail. When he came out of the bedroom, Zoe was standing in the kitchen leafing through an advertisement circular.

“Sorry it took so long.” Conor motioned toward the door. “Let’s go.”

He grabbed an umbrella on the way out, then put Zoe into the twenty-year-old Porsche he’d bought as a junker and spent most of last year restoring. The SEPTA station was only eight blocks down. He pulled to the curb behind a transit bus.

“’Night.” She got out of the car and turned away.