Chapter 9
The Man Behind the Bar
The door was already open.
I didn't remember pushing it. I didn't remember walking through it.
I didn't remember the bell that had chimed somewhere above my head, announcing my arrival to no one, because no one was here.
The bar was dark. The stools were upside down on the tables.
The air smelled like stale beer and lemon polish and something else—something warm, something that reminded me of bread baking, though I couldn't remember the last time I'd been somewhere that smelled like bread.
The Lost Hours.
The name was on the window. I'd read it as I passed—or thought I'd read it, or dreamed I'd read it, or maybe I'd just known it somehow, the way you know things in dreams, without evidence or explanation.
The Lost Hours.
I'd never been here before.
Or maybe I had.
Or maybe I'd been here a thousand times, in a thousand dreams, and my body knew the way even when my mind didn't.
I walked toward the back of the bar. My legs were heavy. My arms were heavy. Everything was heavy, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept, or eaten, or drunk anything that wasn't cold coffee from a diner at three in the morning.
The cooler.
It was against the wall, humming, vibrating, pushing cold air into the room.
I needed to be cold.
Cold was grounding.
Cold was real.
Cold was something I could feel without thinking.
I lowered myself to the floor. My back pressed against the cooler, and the cold seeped through my shirt, through my skin, into my bones. The blood on my hands was dry now—cracked, flaking, red-brown and ugly. I looked at my palms and didn't recognize them.
Rue.
Her face.
Her eyes, closed.
Had I closed them?
I didn't remember.
I didn't remember anything.
The last thing I remembered was Rue leading me into the building. Her voice, soft and sure. Her hand, reaching for mine.
And then—
Nothing.
A gap.
A wound.
And now I was here, in a bar I'd never seen, with blood on my hands and no memory of how I'd gotten here.
I curled into myself. My knees pressed against my chest. My arms wrapped around my legs. My forehead pressed against my knees, and I closed my eyes, and I tried to disappear.
"Daddy."
The word was a whisper.
"Daddy, where are you?"
No answer.
There was never an answer.
I closed my eyes, and the darkness behind my lids was the same as the darkness in front of them, and I couldn't tell the difference anymore.
The light changed.
I didn't open my eyes. I didn't need to. I could feel the shift—the warmth of something moving, the pressure of someone standing over me.
"Hey."
A voice. Male. Rough, but not unkind.
"Hey, can you hear me?"
I didn't answer.
"You're in my bar. The Lost Hours. It's..."
A pause. A rustle of fabric. A soft curse.
"It's six in the morning. Opening time. You're behind the cooler."
I knew that.
I'd chosen the cooler.
The cold was grounding.
"You're bleeding."
Was I?
I looked down at my hands. The blood was dry. The blood was old. The blood didn't belong to me.
"It's not mine."
My voice came out strange. Small. Young. The voice of someone who'd forgotten how to speak to adults.
"Whose is it?"
"I don't remember."
A long pause.
"Okay."
He didn't call the police. I heard him walk away—footsteps on wood, the creak of a floorboard, the soft sound of a door opening and closing. I waited for sirens. I waited for hands on my wrists, for cold metal, for the voice of someone telling me I had the right to remain silent.
None of it came.
He came back. I heard his footsteps approaching, slower this time, careful. A soft sound—something being set down on the floor beside me.
"Water."
"I don't—"
"You need to drink. You're dehydrated. I can see it in your skin, your lips, the way your eyes aren't focusing."
I opened my eyes.
He was kneeling in front of me. Older—fifty, maybe, or fifty-three.
Built like someone who'd been strong once and was still strong, just softer around the edges.
His hair was grey, cut short. His eyes were grey too, or maybe blue, or maybe something in between.
He was wearing an apron with the bar's logo on it, and his hands were rough and scarred and steady.
"I'm Matt."
"I'm—"
I stopped.
What was my name?
Lilah?
Bunny?
Something else?
Something I'd forgotten?
"Bunny."
The word came out before I could stop it.
"My name is Bunny."
He didn't laugh. He didn't raise an eyebrow. He didn't look at me like I was crazy, even though I was sitting on his floor at six in the morning with dried blood on my hands and a name that didn't belong to any adult I'd ever met.
"Okay, Bunny. Drink the water."
"I don't—"
"You don't have to trust me. You don't have to talk to me. You just have to drink the water. Your body needs it."
I looked down at the bottle. Plastic. Unopened. The cap was still sealed.
I picked it up.
My hands were shaking.
I twisted the cap.
The water was cold.
I drank.
He didn't ask questions.
Not then. Not while I drank the first bottle, or the second, or while he helped me stand and walk to the back room, where there was a couch and a blanket and a pillow that smelled like fabric softener.
Not while I sat on the edge of the couch, shivering, while he draped the blanket over my shoulders.
"You need to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"I know. But you need to eat anyway."
He walked to a small kitchenette—a microwave, a mini-fridge, a coffee maker—and pulled out a container of something that steamed when he opened it.
"Soup. Chicken. It's easy on the stomach."
"I don't—"
"You don't have to eat all of it. Just a few spoonfuls. Enough to keep your body from shutting down."
He set the bowl on the table beside the couch. A spoon. A napkin. A glass of water.
"I'll be out front if you need me. Take your time."
He walked toward the door.
"Wait."
He stopped.
"Why aren't you calling the police?"
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful.
"I've been around long enough to recognize trauma when I see it. You're not a criminal. You're someone who's been through something terrible, and you're trying to survive."
"You don't know that."
"I know that you're sitting in my back room with dried blood on your hands, and you didn't try to hurt me. You didn't try to steal anything. You just... collapsed."
"I killed someone."
The words came out before I could stop them. Flat. Empty. The words of someone who'd stopped feeling anything a long time ago.
He didn't flinch.
"Maybe you did. Maybe you didn't. I'm not a judge. I'm not a cop. I'm just a guy who owns a bar and doesn't ask too many questions."
"Why?"
"Because I've seen what happens to people who ask too many questions. Because I've been in places where the only thing keeping you alive is someone else's silence."
He walked out, and the door closed behind him, and I was alone.
The soup was warm.
I ate a few spoonfuls. Then a few more. My stomach complained, but I kept going, because Matt was right—my body needed fuel, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd given it anything that wasn't coffee or desperation.
The blanket was soft.
I pulled it tighter around my shoulders. The fabric smelled like lavender, or maybe just soap, or maybe something else entirely. It was warm. It was safe. It was the first time I'd felt either in weeks.
Rue.
Her face.
Her eyes, closed.
Had I closed them?
I didn't remember.
I didn't want to remember.
The soup was warm, and the blanket was soft, and the door was closed, and Matt wasn't asking questions, and for a little while, I let myself pretend that none of it had happened.
That I was just a woman who'd wandered into a bar at six in the morning, tired and hungry and lost.
That the blood on my hands was paint, or dirt, or something else entirely.
That I hadn't killed anyone.
That I wasn't hunting a ghost.
That Gabriel was still with me, and I was still his, and the world still made sense.
But the world didn't make sense.
It hadn't made sense in a long time.
And pretending didn't change anything.
He came back an hour later.
I'd finished the soup. I'd drunk another glass of water. I was still sitting on the couch, the blanket wrapped around me, my hands folded in my lap.
"Better?"
"A little."
"Good."
He sat in a chair across from me. Not too close. Not too far. Close enough to talk, far enough to give me space.
"You said your name is Bunny."
"Yes."
"Is that your real name?"
"It's the only one I have."
He nodded, like that made sense.
"Where are you from, Bunny?"
"I don't know."
"Where are you staying?"
"I have an apartment. Somewhere. I don't remember the address."
"Do you have any family? Anyone I can call?"
"No."
"Friends?"
I thought about the blonde who wasn't there. Batch 39. The girl who'd said Gabriel was dead.
"No."
"Okay."
He leaned back in his chair.
"I need a bartender. The hours are flexible. The pay isn't great, but it's enough to live on. There's a basement you can use for... whatever you need."
"You don't know me."
"I know you're not dangerous. Not to me."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because you're sitting on my couch with a blanket around your shoulders, and you haven't tried to hurt me. Because you're shaking, and your eyes are hollow, and you look like you haven't slept in weeks. Because I've been where you are, and I know what it looks like."
"You've killed someone?"
"I've done things I'm not proud of. Things that would keep me up at night if I let them. But I'm still here. Still breathing. Still trying to do some good in the world."
He stood up.
"The job is yours if you want it. Think about it. No pressure."
"Matt."
He stopped at the door.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the basement."
He walked out, and I heard him moving around out front—chairs being put down, bottles being arranged, the small sounds of a bar waking up.
I sat on the couch with the blanket around my shoulders, and I thought about his offer.
A job.
A place.