“Cheers,” she said, when he slid the small glass of vodka toward her. She downed it easily and waited for Gabe’s favorite cocktail. Setting her phone on the bar, Nat checked her text messages. Nothing from Violet. It was confounding. Had the girl reconciled with Fern? Or had Gabe come clean to his wife and daughter already? No, not yet. He would fall on his sword in person. Or more likely, spin his web of lies. If Nat could get to Violet before Gabe got back to the Hamptons, she would still have a chance to wound him. She texted Violet again.

Would love to see you

The rusty nail materialized, and she took a large swallow. It tasted like a brew of gasoline and paint thinner. How had she convinced herself she liked these? But the burning liquid stoked the flame of hatred in her belly, so Nat downed it and ordered another. Next to her, a couple of tourists, middle-aged women from Nebraska in town for a “girls’ weekend,” drank white wine. They attempted to spark up a conversation with her but soon abandoned their efforts. Nat gave off an aura of drunken hostility.

She was on her fourth drink (fifth if she counted the vodka shot) when she felt the man’s gaze upon her. He was at the end of the L-shaped bar, drinking alone. He was in his late thirties, a swarthy, pockmarked face beneath a shaved head. He was unremarkable, except for his light green eyes, and the way they darted away when she looked at him. Like most young women, Nat was accustomed to unwanted attention, to leering looks and lascivious smiles. But this man wasn’t flirting with her. If he had been, he would have met her stare. A bristling sensation crawled up the back of her neck. She waved for the bill.

* * *

It was after eleven when she stumbled onto the street; too early to go home, but she had to get out of that place, away from the shady man sitting at the end of the bar. Glancing over her shoulder, she ensured he hadn’t followed her outside. He hadn’t. Perhaps she’d imagined his nefarious interest? Gazing down the street, she weighed her options. There were more bars, more restaurants. She could slip inside, find another stool, order another glass of poison. And then, on the next block, she noticed a velvet rope, a huge bouncer in head-to-toe black. A nightclub.

She hadn’t gone dancing since she met Gabe. He was conservative, older, would have been out of place in the hot, hedonistic club scene. But Nat would fit right in. She lurched toward the doorway, eager to lose herself in its cavernous anonymity. The big man standing sentry gave her a quick once-over and unclipped the rope. She paid the twenty-dollar cover and was ushered into the sanctified space.

The club was humid and dark, loud and overstimulating. It was packed with partiers, though it was Sunday. This crowd didn’t hold down nine-to-five jobs. They were students and servers, cooks and creatives. This was where a girl her age should spend her nights, not at jazz clubs or French bistros, not in bed with a man older than her father. These were her peers, her people. Nat pushed her way toward the bar and ordered another vodka shot, and a vodka cooler. Downing the shot, she took the bottle and hurtled to the dance floor.