Twenty-EightGiven the hour, Bridget expected the bar to be empty, everyone upstairs dressing for the house’s opening. She’d wait there for Tate, tell her the incredible news. News that still felt as hard to grasp as clouds: She was innocent.
She pulled out a chair and laid the paper on the table. She’d read the article again. Slower this time.
“What are you doing here?” June’s voice was full of vinegar. She’d stopped on the stairs at the sight of Bridget but came on again.
Dressed for work, Bridget thought. Or undressed for work. A pink chemise, flaring pink petticoats. That sort of outfit wasn’t startling. The blood-red circle of rouge on each pale cheek, looking like a pair of gouges, was.
June went behind the bar, stood in front of a row of bottles. Going down the line, she tapped a
