Jessica’s left hand instinctively went to her right arm, which was entirely decorated with brightly colored artwork. Just over two years ago, the skin had been untouched by a needle. Now it was filled with hearts, skulls, and roses. She touched an anchor on the center of her forearm. It was her first tattoo and had been inked just hours after they’d put Tony in the ground.

She had lasted less than an hour at the wake at a neighbor’s house before telling sympathetic almost-friends and complete strangers that she needed to go home and lie down.

Jessica had headed for the nearest bar instead.

Three double Scotch on the rocks later and she’d known booze alone wasn’t going to cut it. She’d needed to feel something real, something that would prick the anesthetized bubble she’d been bouncing around in for the best part of a week. Jessica had wanted to feel pain that she was in control of.

After leaving the bar, she’d stumbled outside into the rain, the booze and torrential downpour combining to make it difficult to focus on the blinking sign across the street. After she’d squinted at the letters for a few moments, they’d eventually formed into words, and she’d known she had found what she was looking for.

Before the tattoo artist had been able to comment on her whiskey breath, Jessica had flopped onto the seat and presented her arm to him. He’d eyed the naked, milky flesh hungrily. It was clear he wasn’t going to pass up all that unspoiled virgin terrain, whether she was drunk or not.

“Have a look through these,” he’d said, thrusting a folder at her. “See if anything catches your eye.”

The book was full of designs clearly aimed at first-time female customers—tiny pink roses, pretty butterflies, Japanese symbols. Shaking her head, she’d pointed to a big rockabilly anchor in shades of black, silver, and blue on a poster on the wall.

“I’ll have that one.” She’d tapped the exact spot on her arm. “Right here.”

Then she had sat back, closed her eyes, and savored the exquisite pain of the needle.

The choice of design had been ironic, Jessica realized now, because she felt like she had been drifting ever since.

“The tattoos are a story for another day,” she told Holliday. “Why don’t we get the check?”

“Sure thing. It’s my treat.”

“I don’t need you to buy my lunch.”

“I know you don’t.” He grinned. “You’re picking up the check next time.”

“Deal,” Jessica said. “Just make sure you tip the goddamn waitress.”