Chapter 92: One Last Bar

Two days later, I sit down and go clink, drink, plonk, and clink on the bar.

Right on cue, he walks in, orders his pint, and turns to me.

He’s still utterly nondescript, with the instantly forgettable face of a contract killer or an investment banker. This version of him is dressed casually, with comfortable shoes and a cable knit sweater.

“Oh my god. You’re Margery Jones!”

“Guilty as charged,” I say as I turn to face him.

“I read your book. Actually, I read it like 8 times. Could I buy you a drink?”

“Sure.”

“Sam Hobbes. Great to meet you.”