In what seems like every five minutes, I check my phone for any updates on Georgia, and before I know it, it’s closing time.

“Last call!” I shout.

Customers guzzle down their drinks and finish their games of pool. The free-drink-loving frat boys are in the corner, throwing out desperate last shots at convincing a group of women to go to their place for round two. The man in front of me asks me to find his wife’s name in his phone and calls for a ride home.

A typical closing night at Twisted Fox.

Different situations but always the same characters.

Finn waits to leave until the bar clears out, and while he’s walking out the door, Cassidy reminds him to send her updates. I kill the TVs—what I always do first when closing—but the silence is needed more tonight than ever.

Dirty glasses and beer bottles clank together as Cassidy collects and tosses them into the garbage. Just like with Archer leaving me, Georgia’s rush to the hospital left Cassidy alone for the night.

“If you want to go, I’ll finish up,” I say, dumping the contents of a red food basket into the trash before stacking it on top of the others.

She doesn’t need to feel obligated to stay and close shop with a stranger.

“I’m good.” She strolls to the next table. “It’s my job.”

My throat tightens.

Would she be okay if she knew who I was?

Where I’ve been?

My past?

My money is on no.

There’s an automatic assumption when it comes to people like me.

An automatic notion that criminals are not to be trusted.

“Any updates on Georgia?”

Her question jerks me from my woe is me thoughts, and I cringe, remembering Cohen’s latest text.

The good news? Georgia is doing well.

Bad news? Archer left the hospital, hasn’t returned, and isn’t answering his phone.

I clear my throat. “She’s stable. They think it’s a concussion.” I scrub a hand over my face, adding a deep pressure with the tips of my fingers.

“Then why do you look so stressed?” She tilts her head to the side. A strand of blond hair tucked behind her ear falls free.

“Archer is MIA.”

Whoa.

I retreat a step.

I’m a private person, never one to air out my family’s business.

“What do you mean, MIA?” She stops cleaning and focuses on me. “Why isn’t he there with her?”

“That’s the question of the century.” Holding in my aggravation over my brother’s dumbass actions is a struggle.

“No offense, but that’s messed up.”

It is.