Ears still ringing from the band’s last set, Conor set a Guinness in front of a regular. Patrons turned back to the hockey game playing on all three TVs. The Flyers were winning, and a celebration was in full swing. Two plainclothes cops sat in a corner booth drinking Diet Coke and watching the game, forced inside because they couldn’t see both exits of the bar from the street. Conor didn’t mind. In case anything else happened, he couldn’t get a better alibi.

Jayne swung by, a tray loaded with beer, hot wings, and nachos balanced on her hip. Her face was whiter than its usual Irish pale, setting off dark shadows under her eyes.

“You shouldn’t be carrying anything that heavy. Where does this go?” Slipping out from behind the bar, he took the tray from her hands and delivered it to the table she indicated.

“I’m fine, Conor,” she said without enthusiasm.

“Have you heard from Reed?”

“Yes, Scott is out of surgery, but they put him in intensive care.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” Conor wrapped an arm around his sister. “Why don’t you go home? Or go take pictures. That always takes your mind off your troubles.”

Jayne was also a freelance photographer.

“I don’t want to be alone.” She rested her head on his shoulder.

He kissed the top of her head. “OK. Then you can help Ernie behind the bar, and I’ll take care of the tables.”

At least she wouldn’t have to carry trays. Conor made a mental note to hire another waitress. He turned to take an order. A buzz from the TV overhead signaled another goal. Conor glanced up. The Flyers scored again.

“Whoot!” Phil, the cable repairman, leaped from his seat and high-fived the guy next to him. He turned, tripped, and dumped his beer on Conor. The nearly full glass soaked him from neck to knees.

“Oh, man. I’m sorry, Conor.” Phil grabbed a handful of napkins and pushed them at Conor.

“It’s cool.” He backed away. “I’ll just go change.”

“Be back in a few minutes,” he called out to Jayne and Ernie. He hurried toward the back door, dropping the order ticket in the kitchen on his way through. He jogged up the stairs into his apartment. Coming home to his empty place last night had sucked. He’d slept better the night before on Louisa’s couch, and he could get used to the whole breakfast together thing. He’d kissed her—twice. Yes, despite being a murder suspect, things were looking up, and Conor was in a pretty damned good mood. If only the cops could find Zoe alive. Then maybe he and Louisa could spend some real time together, time not overshadowed by worry and death.