Page 46 of Ruger's Rage
It’s not long before the morning regulars start piling in and I lose myself in the familiar rhythm—pour coffee, take orders, wipe tables.
Simple tasks requiring just enough focus to quiet the chaos in my mind.
By late afternoon, the bar sits nearly empty except for a table of truckers finishing late lunches.
I'm restocking napkin dispensers when the door swings open, and a man I've never seen before walks in.
Something about him immediately sets off alarm bells.
Nothing specific—not his faded jeans or his plain button-down shirt.
He looks ordinary, forgettable even.
But the way his eyes scan the room, lingering on every face, feels icky.
"Afternoon," I say as he slides onto a barstool. "What can I get you?"
"Just coffee for now." His voice is pleasant, unremarkable. "Long drive ahead."
I pour his coffee, keeping my movements casual while studying him from the corner of my eye. Late thirties, average build, close-cropped hair. Nothing threatening, yet tension crawls up my spine.
"Quiet place," he comments, stirring sugar into his cup. "Been here long?"
"The bar? Since before I was born."
He smiles. "I meant you."
I keep my expression neutral. "Six months or so."
"Passing through or staying?"
"Staying," I answer, though part of me wonders why I'm giving him any information at all. "It's home now."
He nods thoughtfully, taking a sip. "I'm looking for an old friend who might have settled in this area. Elizabeth Hayes. Blonde, about your height. Beautiful girl."
My heart stops. Elizabeth. My real name.
"Don't know anyone by that name," I say, impressed by how steady my voice sounds even with the panic flooding my system.
"Shame. She's got family worried sick about her." He pulls out his phone, turning it to show me a photo. "This her?"
The picture is me—three years ago, at a Christmas party with Marco. I'm smiling, unaware of what was coming. I barely recognize the carefree woman with her arm around the man who would later push her down a flight of stairs.
"Sorry," I say, shaking my head. "Don't know her."
His eyes narrow slightly, studying my face. "You sure? Maybe she goes by a different name now. Liz? Beth? Matilda?"
The deliberate mention of my middle name sends ice through my veins.
He knows. He's toying with me.
"Never met an Elizabeth," I repeat, turning away to wipe down the counter. "Or those others. Small town—pretty sure I'd know if someone like that moved here, especially a thin blonde like that. They stick out like a sore thumb."
Truth is, I was about sixty pounds lighter when I was first with Marco, and I certainly wasn't sporting my natural hair color.
He leaves his coffee untouched, placing a twenty on the counter. "Keep the change. If you do happen to see her, there's five grand for anyone who helps her reconnect with concerned family."
He slides a business card across the bar.
