Ben blinks like he’s refocusing a camera. “H–R,” he repeats, barely there. “Hoffman… Richards.”
Jason tilts the photo to catch the light. “Check the back,” he says again.
Ben flips it over. In blue ballpoint, neat and proud: Opening night — The Lockside — 10/11/79. First pour of H–R Heritage. W.H. + E.R.
Ben rubs his temple, a shaky laugh breaking loose. “Opening night.” He looks between us, the fight gone out of his posture. “He wasn’t stealing. They were… partners.”
“Looks like it,” Jason says. “House recipe, their place. That would explain the comment cards—two hands, one beer.”
Ben studies the faces again. “And those guys from yesterday were in the guild with them. There must’ve been a falling out of some sort. After this.” He swallows. “But this—this is them, together.”
I squeeze his wrist. “So the story isn’t theft. It’s collaboration.”
“And somewhere along the way,” Jason adds, “it all went to hell for some salty old men who decided to take it out on you. We don’t even know what happened.”
Ben exhales, long and shaky. “I was about to rip taps off a wall over an index card.”
“Which we are framing,” I say definitively. “Beside this photo. Exhibit A and Exhibit B: the beer and the men who made it.”
He huffs. “Yeah. With a plaque: Dear Buck, kindly shut the fuck up.”
Jason snorts. “We’ll workshop the plaque.”
Ben looks at me, eyes clearer. “I’m… not a thief.”
“You never were,” I say.
He nods, once. “Okay.” He looks back down at the names on the window, then to the cash box. “There might be more in here—menus, flyers, something with the logo.”
“Then we keep digging,” Jason says, already reaching for another stack of envelopes. “And tomorrow we see what else we can find. Shake some people down.”
“I wonder how Dad doesn’t know about any of this,” I say.
“He might’ve been too young,” Jason offers. “Sixty-nine? Dad was really young. Maybe Grandpa never told him about it after the group fell out.”
Ben tucks the photo back into its sleeve like it’s a living thing. He glances at the hatch, then at us. “Either way, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good,” I say. “Because we have a story to put back together for this little one.” I pat my stomach. “And you are done running, remember?”
“Copy that, boss.”
Epilogue
Ben
The park in front of the river is all canvas and cables and people milling about.
Tents snap in the light breeze, fairy lights fight the late sun, and the first movie is about to start while everyone rushes to get their snacks and stake claim to their spots for the event.
Our booths make an L just like Paige sketched—Pint and Pastry, elbow to elbow. We stuck a little sign across the inside corner that says INTERMISSION LANE and painted a dumb arrow that points both ways. It keeps making people smile. That, and the smell.
On my side: two taps, a bucketed keg for samples, the nitro line, and a chalkboard that reads HR HERITAGE (Hoffman & Richards). Under it, a line I didn’t think I’d get to write: House Recipe, 1969. The photo from the attic—Lockside’s opening night—is in a plexiglass stand, alongside copies of the comment cards for further proof.
On Paige’s side: a tray of Director’s Cut minis already on their third restock (chocolate ganache, lemon poppy, caramel corn), a plate of cupcakes so pretty people take pictures before they bite into them, and a hand-lettered menu with names that make me pretend-groan: Cinnemagic Pairing, Reel & Roll, and the Snickerdoodle Shandy—it sold out in an hour.
“Hydrate, boss,” I say, passing Paige a bottle when she hustles back from the register with change clinking in her apron.
“Yes, Chef,” she deadpans, takes three obedient swallows, then gives the bottle back. Her cheeks are flushed from working, eyes bright. A steady supply of ginger candy and saltines keeps her going between customers. We haven’t told a soul, but they’ll know soon enough.
