He leaned forward a fraction, as if to share a secret. Hints of a cigarette and the warm spring air outside clung to him. “No, yours would be hard to forget.”

The jazz piano blended with clinking glasses and conversations. My talent for small talk had never been great, and now it was rusty to the point of dilapidated. “It’s been good to meet you, Alan.”

“I’m going to be a regular here. Beer’s good and beats an empty apartment.”

“Food’s also decent. Burger and fries are great.”

“Care to join me?” He was not quick to accept a no.

“There’s a birthday party in the back room, and if I don’t show, I’ll have a very unhappy sister hunting me down.”

He didn’t look particularly rushed. “Do you live around here, Marisa?” My name rang with a familiarity, as if we’d known each other for years.

“A few blocks.”

“Me too. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“Maybe.”

As I rose, he glanced toward the shot glasses, mulling over their pristine status.

“They’re yours if you want them,” I said.

He held up his beer. “I’m never one to challenge tradition.”

“How do you know offering the drinks to a stranger isn’t part of the routine?”

“Somehow I don’t think it is.”

“Have a good one, Alan.” Sliding my purse strap onto my shoulder, I touched him briefly on the forearm. The touch was spontaneous but reminded me of just how long it had been since I’d had human contact beyond an EMT shoving an IV in my arm or a surgeon cracking open my skull. Curling my fingers into a loose fist, I left him and the untouched drinks and made my way to the banquet room’s open double doors. Above the entrance was a silver Mylar banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

“Let the fun begin.”

3 MARISA

3

MARISA

Friday, March 11, 2022

8:00 p.m.

I had one birthday wish—no, two. Maybe three. Wish #1: Clare was alive. Wish #2: if Clare couldn’t be brought back from the dead, her killer was caught. And last and certainly least, wish #3: booze didn’t haunt all my waking hours.

But seeing as wishes didn’t come true, no matter how many candles I blew out, I didn’t bother. I crossed the bar to the private banquet space and stepped inside.

I normally wasn’t early; in fact, I’d flaked a few too many times during the last decade, and Brit wasn’t here now because she was expecting me to be late. No doubt the time she’d given me was earlier than what she gave the guests. My new self-improvement mantra—“early is better”—would never be tested enough for my sister.

“Can I help you?” A waiter entered from a side door carrying a tray of glasses.