It happened on a Thursday.
Not a planned Thursday. Not the eight forty-seven back door ritual of the winter months — that had dissolved with everything else in April. Just a Thursday in the third week of June that started as an ordinary day and became something else by the time it ended.
I was at the Cobble Hill location closing up at nine when my phone rang.
Not Marcus. Not Jade.
Davis.
Which was unusual enough that I answered immediately.
"Hey," he said. His voice had the specific quality of someone who had information and wasn't sure what to do with it. "Are you still at the bakery?"
"Just closing. Why?"
"Marcus is at the bar on Atlantic. The one on the corner." A pause. "He's been here since seven. He's had — a lot. And Isabelle is apparently at some work dinner she can't leave
