CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The night sky was made darker by the blanket of cloud cover. The chill breeze had turned into a biting wind. Tony had been in the Irish bar on East 4th Street since nine o’clock. He had been in there every night since Amber’s death. He had gotten a favourite spot – a quiet table in a corner where he could sit, virtually undisturbed.
It was an old place with bare brick walls, oak fittings and fixtures, as well as dim lights and the smell of Guinness and stale beer. The tavern had been around since the late ’90s and Tony had spent most of his youth in there. It was his second favourite place in the world, of which he’d seen plenty since he’d been in the army – the first being his childhood home, which his parents still owned. By half-past ten the tavern’s capacity had
