I’d sit down, Duke said pleasantly. I’m not here for trouble, Craig said. Neither am I, Duke said. Sit down. Beat Harlow had his hand below the counter, and his expression had not changed, and the two men at the bar were now looking very carefully at the television. Craig Bowman stood in the middle of the rusty spoke, and ran the numbers.
He had done this before in his life, the quick, instinctive calculation of a man who had never been truly afraid, but had occasionally had the wisdom to recognize when the math wasn’t in his favor. He looked at Duke, at the patch on the chair behind him, at the stillness of the man, which was not the stillness of someone who had nothing to offer, but the stillness of someone who had already decided what he would do.
He sat down at the nearest table. Under Duke’s table, Lily had not moved, had not made a sound. Her hand was still wrapped around the table leg, and the glass of water sat beside his boot, half empty. Duke picked up his bourbon. “She’s not here,” he said to no one and everyone. “Might want to check the diner two blocks down.
” “Kids like diners,” Craig said nothing. “Cold night to be looking,” Duke added. “Might want to think about what you’re going to say to her when you find her.” He took a sip. Kids remember the words you use when they’re scared. The bar was very quiet. Craig Bowman stood up. After a long moment, he pulled his jacket closed. He looked at Duke one more time, and whatever he saw there was enough to make him turn without another word, and walk back toward the door. He pushed it open.
The cold air came in for a moment. Then the door swung shut. Nobody breathed for three full seconds. Then Pete exhaled through his nose. The two men at the bar turned back to the television. The woman in the denim jacket picked up her phone. Duke looked down. He’s gone,” he said quietly. A pause, then a small voice. “For now.
