11:00 P.M.
The Toasted Cat was a hole-in-the-wall joint that’d been around since the sixties. The vibe was low key and old school; it catered to a working-class crowd as far removed from the frenetic clubs the kids favored as it was from the pretentiously cool places the intellectuals frequented. It was mostly a drinking spot, but had a limited menu of a few sandwiches and a soup or chili, depending on the weather.
As she stepped into the bar, the bartender, Summer Knight—who also happened to be the joint’s owner—looked her way and smiled. “Hey, girl, what’re you doing out tonight? The chief give you time off for being awesome?”
Miranda laughed and shook her head. “Like that would ever happen.” She slid onto a barstool. “Knew I couldn’t sleep, figured a drink might help.”
“You got it. The usual?”
She shook her head. “A shot of tequila and a beer.”
“That’s hardcore for a school night.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m not in school anymore.”
Summer set the shot and draft in front of her. Miranda sucked on the wedge of lime, then tossed back the tequila.
Summer watched her, eyebrow cocked in question. “Feel better?”
“Actually, I do.” The numbing effect of the tequila was almost instantaneous and she motioned for a second, then took a long swallow of the beer.
Summer poured herself a splash of red wine. “Ready to talk?”
“About what?”
“You tell me.”
Miranda glanced around. Other than a few other patrons—a couple cuddling in a corner booth, another couple at the opposite end of the bar from her, silent, staring at the cocktails in front of them—the place was empty.
“Quiet tonight,” she said.
The eyebrow went up again. Summer folded her arms across her chest. “Okay, I’ll play. Fair crowd earlier. Not too bad for a weeknight. Your turn.”
Summer never missed a thing. And she never let those things pass. She had the kind of dry humor that encouraged confidence. A sort of cool familiarity with slightly sharp edges. Never mean, just … really direct.
They’d become fast friends.
So Miranda gave in. “It was a big day. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I came here.”
“You couldn’t crawl into a bottle at home?”
She bit down on the second wedge of lime, then shot the tequila. This one burned going down. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
Summer smiled. “Absolutely.”
“Okay, it wasn’t just a full day, it was totally screwed up, too. Home alone wasn’t an option.”
“You needed your best friend the bartender. Aww, that’s so sweet. I’m touched, I really am.”
Exactly right, as usual. But the blow was softened by her sarcasm. Miranda grinned. “The way you read people, you should be the cop.”
Summer laughed. “Me with a gun? Not my style at all. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
Summer went to the other end of the bar to check on the couple there, cleared their tab, then returned.
“You heard about the murder?” Miranda asked.
“This is the kind of place where folks come to talk. That’s pretty much all I heard about today. You working the case?”
“I am. What was everybody saying?”
“It seemed like a lot of speculation. Let’s see … one version had it that he was shot during a robbery. Another that he killed himself and y’all are trying to cover it up.”
“A cover-up of a suicide?”
“President Stark’s orders. So his kid doesn’t look bad.”
Miranda shook her head. “That’s nuts.”
“I didn’t say it made sense.”
“What else?” She took another swallow of the beer.
“Here’s another good one: The professor was juggling one too many ladies and one of them had enough and whacked him.”
“Yeah? Who said that?”
“A group of ladies.”
Made sense. “You have names?”
“A couple of ’em paid with a credit card. I could look it up.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Miranda finished the beer but refused a refill. “Stark, he ever come in here?”
“A few times, yeah.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Besides that he was ridiculously good looking?” She rested on her elbows on the bar. “He was always with a group, sat at a table so we never really interacted. But I seem to recall he tipped well.”
“The groups he came in with. Students? Other faculty?”
“Young people, a couple times, maybe. Mixed-looking groups.”
“Never the same?” She shook her head. “How about one-on-ones? Maybe him and a woman?”
Summer took a sip of her wine. “Not that I recall.”
“You observe him when he was here?”
“Depends on how busy I was. You know me, I observe everybody.”
Miranda nodded. “So, what did you observe?”
She paused, lips pursed in thought. “Seemed liked. By other guys, but especially by the ladies. Hard not to be, with that face.”
She indicated her glass. “Another shot?”
“God, no. I can’t feel my toes as it is. I better settle up, get out of here.”
Summer waved her off. “It’s on the house.”
Miranda moved to go, then stopped. “Do you ever feel like you’re on this journey and you know who you are and where you’re going? And then, out of nowhere, it seems like … you don’t?”
Summer shrugged. “I suppose everybody feels that way sometimes.”
“Do they? I don’t. Didn’t,” she corrected. “Until today. It’s like this fork in the road comes along and—”
“You have a choice. This path or the other?”
“Yeah.” Miranda looked down at the bar, at the wet ring left by her glass. “How do you decide? One way’s safe, because it’s familiar and you’re sure of the results. The other is the antithesis of comfortable or safe.”
Summer leaned toward her, eyes sparkling. “Is this about a guy?”
“Sorry.”
“Okay, I say take the fork.” She smiled, expression rueful. “That’s what I did and look at me, thirty years old and tending bar.”
“You own the place.”
“Technically, I’m only part owner. Bank owns the rest.” Summer drained the splash of wine. “Look, four years ago I had a good job in liquor sales, and I was engaged to pretty great guy. I knew exactly where my life was going.”
“You were engaged? You never told me that before.”
“I’m not proud of the way it turned out. Point is, I was comfortable. Sure of myself and my future. House in the burbs. Kids. Marriage to a good guy.”
“So, what happened?”
“The wreck.”
Summer had told her about the car accident that had nearly taken her life. Hydroplaning on the interstate, crashing down an embankment into a tree.
“I woke up in the hospital three days later and knew.”
“Knew what?”
“I couldn’t do it. Marry the guy, do the sales, have the kids.”
A single tear rolled down her cheek. A lump formed in Miranda’s throat. Summer was the least likely person to cry that she knew.
“I almost died, Miranda. I was saved. I don’t know why. But I knew that the path I was on … wasn’t me.”
Another tear escaped and she wiped it away. “I can’t believe I’m telling you all this.”
“What was his name?” Miranda asked softly.
“Scott. I hurt him. I didn’t mean to or want to … and he didn’t understand that it wasn’t him, it was me. I had unfinished business. And I couldn’t do that to him … or any kids we might have. And I couldn’t do it to me either.”
Miranda reached across the bar and squeezed Summer’s hand. “That took guts.”
“Yeah, it did. It would have been so easy to just … let him love me.” Her voice turned raspy and she cleared her throat. “At first he insisted I was just ‘confused’ because of the accident. Then, as the weeks passed, he accused me of being afraid. Of running away.”
“He didn’t get it,” Miranda murmured. “That’s what you were doing before.”
“Yes.” Her eyes filled and she looked away. When she turned back, she had her emotions in check. “So, I started looking around for something to do, saw this business up for sale, and here I am.”
“I’m glad,” Miranda said. “Or else I wouldn’t know you.”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Summer said, freeing her hand. “Sobfest is officially over and it’s time for you to go home.”