CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Wicked Cat hadn't changed in three months. The same bell chimed as Cyrus opened the door. The customers, who were enjoying their beers, glanced up at him, then resumed their conversations. Becca was playing the Grateful Dead on a Bluetooth speaker in the corner of the bar. The bartenders were still slinging drinks like their lives depended on it, mixing cocktails and pouring frothy beer on tap. The smell of Becca's signature pretzels drifted through the air. And Swiss cheese melt with chives and bacon bits.
Cyrus stood in the door, looking across the bar.
One of the bartenders saw him and looked as if she had seen a ghost. She froze, mid-martini. Cyrus waved to her weakly.
Another bartender saw him and nearly dropped the tray of drinks. Cyrus nodded to him.
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