JAKE
The night before Grace Prentiss died the Nickel was quiet. By ten thirty it was just Jake and, in the far corner, Bill Johnson and Medic Gonzalez arguing about the best place to hunt coyotes. Grace was wiping the bar, and she said, ‘Last call, Jake.’
Jake spent three nights a week at the Nickel, but he wasn’t a big drinker. Two beers was his usual. He had half a beer left, so he said, ‘I’m good.’
‘Your momma waiting up for you?’ Grace arched one slim, dark brow.
Jake flushed. His mother was, in fact, waiting up for him. Grace laughed, then loosened the screws. ‘Having a mother who waits up for you is a good thing.’
Jake turned his glass on the bar, smudging the ring of condensation it had made. He knew everyone in Marzen. He knew who could be counted on and who would disappear wh
