"Hey," Vince said.
Daphne kept her eyes on the front of the room. Gertrude had arrived, which usually meant chaos was ten minutes out. The lights caught the edges of bodies still moving on the poles, skin and sweat and the low thrum of music under the rising noise.
"Hey."
"I'm looking for Sherry." He settled into the chair like a man with the evening free, weight dropping easy, one arm along the backrest. "Have you seen her?"
Her heart went the second the name landed—hard, sudden, a single violent kick against her ribs.
She took the glass away from her mouth and set it on the table with her hand still around it, because her hand needed something to be doing. Fingers locked on the stem. Knuckles pale.
"Which Sherry?"
She picked it back up. Her eyes moved. The bar. The door. The gap between the tables. The distance to the front where all the noise was climbing.
