The bar was the first one they saw.
A neon sign buzzed in the window — half the letters dead. Inside, it was dim and smelled like old beer. The floor stuck to McGee's shoes. A jukebox in the corner played something with too much bass.
They slid into a booth in the back. The vinyl was cracked. The table was sticky.
"Whiskey," Hannah told the waitress. "Whatever you've got."
"Same," McGee said.
The drinks came. They drank.
For a while, neither of them talked. They just sat — two women in a dive bar past one in the morning, trying not to think about sixty-three bodies in a ballroom.
"You ever wonder," McGee said finally, "if we're the bad guys in someone else's story?"
Hannah laughed — a tired sound. "Every day."
"I mean —" McGee swirled her whiskey. "He thinks he's doing justice. And I can't —" She stopped. "I can't say he's wrong about all of it."
"Don't." Hannah's voice was firm. "Don't do that. He's a murderer, McGee. Whatever his reasons, he gassed sixty people."
"I know. I know that." McGee drank. "But Langley —"
"Was a corrupt son of a bitch, yeah. Doesn't mean he deserved to be tied to a statue."
They were quiet again.
Then the door opened, letting in a gust of cold air, and a man walked in.
He was average height, dark hair, decent-looking in an unremarkable way. He glanced around the bar, spotted the pool table, and smiled.
He walked over to McGee and Hannah's booth.
"Evening, ladies," he said, in a British accent — warm, a little self-deprecating. "I've just got into town about a week ago and I haven't the faintest idea where anything is. I was hoping to experience a bit of American culture — I don't suppose either of you knows how to play pool?"
Hannah raised an eyebrow at McGee. McGee shrugged.
"Sure," McGee said. "Why not?"
---
His name was — he said — Thomas. Tom.
He bought a round. He was funny, in an easy way — told a story about getting lost on the subway his first day, ending up in completely the wrong neighborhood. McGee laughed. Really laughed, for the first time in days.
They played pool. Tom was terrible — or pretended to be. He missed easy shots, groaned theatrically, made McGee laugh harder.
"You Yanks take this very seriously," he said, lining up a shot he was definitely going to miss.
"We take everything seriously," Hannah said, sinking the eight ball. "It's our thing."
They played darts. Tom was better at darts — hit a bullseye, looked genuinely surprised.
"Beginner's luck," he said, grinning.
The conversation flowed. Tom asked what they did — Hannah said "government work," vague enough. McGee said "police." Tom's eyebrows went up.
"A copper and a spook," he said. "I should be on my best behaviour."
"Too late," McGee said. "We've already seen you play pool."
He laughed — a real, unguarded laugh. He asked about the city, about where to eat, about what there was to do. Normal questions. Normal guy.
But every time McGee mentioned the case — even vaguely, even in passing — Tom leaned in just slightly. Just interested enough. Just a curious stranger making conversation.
"What kind of police work?" he asked.
"Homicide," McGee said.
He whistled. "That must be — I mean, that must be difficult."
"It is," McGee said quietly.
He didn't push. Just nodded, like he understood. And somehow, that was worse — that simple, easy empathy from a stranger.
Hannah's phone buzzed. She glanced at it — work, probably, always work. She looked back at the pool table. McGee was laughing, cue in hand, cheeks flushed. Tom was saying something that made her laugh harder.
Hannah hadn't seen McGee laugh like that in days. Maybe ever.
She silenced the phone and slipped it back into her pocket. Stood up quietly.
"I'm going to head out," she said. "You two look like you're doing fine without me."
McGee looked up, surprised. "You sure?"
"Yeah." Hannah grabbed her jacket. "Have fun. You earned it." She caught McGee's eye for just a second — be careful, that look said, though neither of them would have said it out loud.
Then she was gone, the bar door swinging shut behind her.
"She works too much," Tom said, smiling.
"Don't we all."
He looked at her — really looked at her. "You look knackered, if you don't mind me saying. Long day?"
"The longest."
"Want to get out of here?"
McGee hesitated. She thought about the victim list. About Langley's body on the bull. About the riddle, the alley, the choice.
Then she thought about Tom's laugh. About feeling normal for three hours.
"Yeah," she said. "Let's go."
They left together, into the cold night.
McGee's apartment was exactly as she'd left it — organized mess, case files on the kitchen table, cold tea on the side table.
"Sorry about the mess," she said, kicking off her shoes.
"It's charming," Tom said, looking around. "Lived-in."
They ended up on the couch. His arm around her. Her head on his shoulder. It was comfortable. Easy.
He kissed her. She kissed him back.
It got heated — hands, breath, the weight of him. McGee felt something she hadn't felt in weeks: wanted. Normal. Human.
Then the room tilted.
She tried to focus on his face, but it wouldn't hold still. The drinks, the exhaustion, the grief — it all rose up at once, like a wave. She gripped his shirt, tried to say something, but the words dissolved.
"Hey," he said softly. "Hey, it's alright."
Her eyes closed. Her body went slack against him.
Tom blinked. He looked down at her — really looked — and for a moment, the charm dropped. He just looked... surprised.
"Oh," he said quietly. "Alright then."
He hadn't expected that. Hadn't planned it. She'd just — gone. Too many drinks, too little sleep, too much grief. It was all her, and he knew it.
Gently, he eased her back onto the couch cushions.
"McGee?" he whispered, in his British accent. "Hey. You alright?"
She didn't move. Her breathing was deep, even. Out cold.
He sat there for a moment, looking at her. Then he stood up, found a blanket draped over the arm of the couch, and covered her carefully. Tucked it around her shoulders.
He stood in the middle of her living room. Looked at the kitchen table — the case files, the photos, the timelines. He walked over, glanced at them without touching anything. His eyes lingered on a photo of the ballroom — the bodies in their seats.
He looked back at McGee, sleeping on the couch.
For a long moment, he just stood there.
Then he found a pen on the kitchen table. Tore a corner from a blank page in her notepad. Wrote something, folded it once, and set it next to her keys.
He walked to the door, opened it quietly, stepped into the hallway, and pulled it shut behind him. He made sure it locked.
And he was gone.
---
McGee woke up with a pounding head and a blanket she didn't remember grabbing.
The apartment was empty. Tom was gone.
She sat up slowly, piecing together the night — the bar, the pool, coming home. Her face flushed. She'd passed out. Great. Real smooth, McGee.
Then she saw the folded paper next to her keys.
She opened it. Neat handwriting:
*I had a wonderful night. Had to go — hope to see you again soon.*
And a phone number.
She smiled a little, despite the headache. It had been a nice night. The first nice night in weeks.
She picked up her phone and saved the number.
Chapter 17