CHAPTER 5 #3
The bar was empty of customers. The stools were stacked on the bartop, the floors mopped, the register counted and closed. A single pendant light burned above the far end of the bar, where Cole sat with a glass of something amber and a notepad covered in his cramped handwriting.
He looked up when I entered. "You're early."
"Traffic was light." I dropped my bag on the nearest stool and crossed to where he sat. "What's all this?"
"Inventory. Ordering. The glamorous side of owning a speakeasy." He pushed the notepad aside and drew me into his lap. "How was work?"
"Pileup on I-95. Six patients. One fractured tibia, one ruptured spleen, four with various contusions and lacerations." I leaned into him, letting his warmth seep through my scrubs. "All of them lived."
"Good."
"The construction worker with the tibia—he asked me about my accident. I told him someone pulled me from the wreck."
Cole's arms tightened around me. "Did you tell him who?"
"No. I just said someone refused to give up on me."
"That someone was me."
"I know." I pressed my face into the curve of his neck. "I know it was you. The other Mara—she said that too. That you pulled us both out."
"She wasn't real."
"That doesn't mean she was wrong." I pulled back, meeting his eyes. "What if there's something about the accident I don't remember? Something the hospital didn't record?"
"There's nothing in the police report."
"Police reports can be wrong. Memories can be wrong." I took a breath. "If there was someone else in that car, Cole, I need to know. Even if it's—even if it doesn't make sense."
He studied my face for a long moment. "I'll pull the old records. The fire department keeps incident reports for ten years. I still know people who can access them."
"You'd do that?"
"I'd do anything for you." He said it simply, without drama, the same way he'd told Marcus he loved me. "If there's something in those reports that can help you make sense of what you saw, we'll find it."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. It might take a few days."
"I can wait." I kissed him—soft, grateful, a press of lips that said everything I didn't have words for. "Where's Marcus?"
"In the basement. He's been working on the drywall since noon." Cole's mouth curved. "I checked on him a few hours ago. He was covered in dust and swearing at a stubborn seam, but he was sober. I'll call that a win."
"Definitely a win."
"Go get changed. I'll make you something to eat."
I slid off his lap, suddenly aware of how hungry I was. "You don't have to—"
"I want to. Go."
The panic room was as I'd left it—bed rumpled, fern thriving, the t-shirt Cole had given me folded on the pillow.
No sign of the woman. No whisper of her presence.
I showered quickly, letting the hot water ease the ache in my shoulders from twelve hours of standing in a trauma bay, then pulled on a pair of leggings and one of Cole's sweatshirts.
It smelled like him. Cedar soap and coffee and the faint smoke-sweetness of bourbon.
When I came back upstairs, Cole had set out a plate of cheese and bread and sliced apples on the bartop, along with a glass of water and a small amber bottle.
"What's that?" I asked, nodding at the bottle.
"New tincture. Chamomile, lavender, a little valerian root." He uncorked it and added three drops to my water. "For sleep."
"You think I won't be able to sleep."
"I think you've had a hell of a week, and your brain is going to need help shutting off." He pushed the glass toward me. "Trust me?"
"Always."
I drank. The tincture tasted like flowers and earth, slightly bitter but not unpleasant. Cole watched me finish the glass, his expression unreadable.
"Good?"
"Good."
From somewhere below us, a thump echoed through the floorboards. Marcus, presumably, wrestling with drywall. Another thump. Then a muffled curse.
Cole sighed. "I should go help him."
"He's a grown man."
"A grown man who hasn't done drywall in five years. He's going to put his foot through the wall." He stood, brushing a kiss across my forehead. "Ten minutes. Then I'm all yours."
"I'll hold you to that."
He disappeared down the basement stairs, and I was left alone in the bar.
The pendant lights cast their familiar golden glow.
The jazz record had ended; the only sound was the hum of the refrigeration and the distant, rhythmic thump of Cole's voice directing Marcus.
The bourbon Marcus had uncorked the night before still sat on the back bar, and I picked it up, examining the label.
Something Cole had been aging. An experiment.
I thought about the woman. About the way she'd sat on the edge of the panic room bed, so casual, so certain.
About her claim that she was me—or had been, or could have been.
The kind of thing that shouldn't be possible.
The kind of thing that shouldn't exist outside of bad horror movies and late-night radio shows.
And yet.
The accident had left scars not just on my body, but on my memory.
There were gaps—hours, days, whole stretches of time that the doctors had attributed to the concussion and the trauma.
I'd accepted that explanation because it was easier than digging deeper.
Because the alternative—that something else had happened, something the reports didn't capture—was too complicated to face.
But the woman had known things. Specific things. The passenger seat. Cole's face. The t-shirt.
I set the bourbon back on the shelf and crossed to the alley door. The deadbolt was engaged. The street beyond was quiet. Through the window, I could see the glow of the city's night sky, orange and diffuse, blotting out the stars.
"Not alone," I muttered to myself. "You're not alone. You're not crazy. You're just—processing."
The fern in the panic room had a new frond. I'd noticed it this morning, unfurling toward the grow light. The plant had arrived sparse and struggling, and now it was thriving. Something about the environment suited it. The controlled temperature, the artificial light, the regular watering schedule.
Maybe that was me too. A transplant that had finally found the right conditions to grow.
The basement door swung open. Cole emerged, dusted with white powder, his dark hair gray with drywall dust.
"Fixed it," he said. "He'd put the seam tape on upside down."
"Can you put seam tape on upside down?"
"Marcus can. He's a man of many talents." Cole brushed at his shirt, succeeding only in smearing the dust around. "I need another shower."
"I could join you."
His hands stilled on his collar. "Is that an offer?"