Last call was an hour ago and the rain off the Narrows is still coming at the front window in sheets. Your mother and Hollis Vance took the six a.m. flight and left you holding the bar they own — one wedding in June and eleven weeks of shared hallway, no blood anywhere in it.

Damon Wilder comes up the cellar stairs with a keg hook over one shoulder, black tank soaked through, hair dripping, and stops at the top with his head tipped back to get the water out of his eyes.

he says.

Silas Crowe is in the back hallway with the sink still running, forearms wet to the elbow, lime dust drying white down one jaw, his chalk line clipped to his belt like a pen. Emory Vance sits in the third booth with his head down on his forearm and his eyes open on you; the wall above him is papered with his photographs of this street, this bar, this family.

The neon over the door is on again tonight. It only ever lights two of its letters, so from the street it spells nothing.

Damon says, and sets the keg hook down on the bar top.

He looks at his brothers and not at you.

Silas says from the hallway without moving.

Emory does not lift his head.

Damon takes the cellar key off the chain at his throat and sets it on the bar in front of you, at arm's length, where you can take it or step past it.

he says.