“When you’re drunk you get sloppy sentimental, Dougie,” Nic said.

“You’re worth it. You get ’em all. You—you get ’em.”

“I don’t get ’em all,” Nic replied. “I wish I got ’em all.”

“I mean you get how they tick. What they want. The tells. That thing earlier tonight, you brought the evidence bag in with the medicine bottle?”

Nic bobbed her head in a nod. The world wobbled up and down in a mostly pleasant way.

“You knew she’d done something to his meds.”

“Seemed like the type.”

“Shel, give our Nic another shot? A celebratory one.”

“I just gave her her last. I’m calling a cab to send her home.”

“One more. One more, come on!”

Shelly paused, then looked at Nic. Nic nodded.

“I’m calling the cab. Just in case that little redheaded girl is lying awake at night, worried her mom’s hurt.”

“Too young to know it’s a thing to worry about,” Nic muttered. “Small mercies.”

“Perk up, Nic,” Doug said. “At the risk of overinflating your ego, I have to remind you that today was a damn good day. I will use the time it takes the taxi to arrive to extol your virtues.”

Nic shook her head. “Don’t.”

“If you’re thinking about quitting, then I think it’s my obligation,” Doug said, barely getting ‘obligation’ out.

Nic felt the warmth of the bar, heard the noises, loud and muttered, the war stories, the camaraderie, the boasting and jostling, her partner’s good cheer. She could smell the cigarette smoke that wafted in whenever the door to the kitchen or the front door of the bar opened. The smell of the alcohol.

And, as shitty as the bad got, she could feel good about the successes. About being appreciated. Doug’s praise felt genuine. It was a hell of a thing, to get to the point where people would sing someone’s praises and others wouldn’t immediately cut them down. Especially, she admitted, as a woman.

It felt good.

“I’m not quitting,” she said, absorbing it all. “No quit, don’t worry.”

Time was lubricated enough that the cab’s arrival surprised her with how early it seemed. The trip home equally lubricated, massaged by the hum of the cab’s engine, the whir of heaters and the feel of wheel on pavement.

Home. The cab waited—Shelly had given them instructions, maybe, or they knew the routine. It was usually one or the other. She reached the front door and put key to lock, letting herself in. Only a few of the lights were on, giving her a dim path to bathroom and bedroom.

Bathroom first, because she had to go enough that the resulting stream threatened to penetrate the material of the toilet bowl. She washed her face and cleaned up.