James Wright

The neon sign above the door of the bar flickered with a low and rhythmic hum, casting a sickly green glow over the damp pavement outside. Inside, the air smelled heavily of spilled bourbon, stale tobacco, and wet wool. James sat in the darkest corner booth, his back firmly against the wood-paneled wall, nursing a glass of amber liquid without drinking it. He did not look up when I slid onto the vinyl seat across from him. His fingers traced the rim of his glass with slow and deliberate precision. "You took your time," James said, his voice barely rising above the murmur of the low-end jukebox. "I expected you three days ago." "I needed to make sure you weren't watching the wrong people," I replied, keeping my hands flat on the scarred table surface. "Everyone is watching everyone in this city. Your parents called twice this afternoon to check if the investigation was stalling. They sounded disappointed when the precinct confirmed the identity remained uncorrected." I kept my gaze locked on his face, searching for any trace of surprise or deceit in his expression. "They paid someone to finish what started at the river. They bought my death, and now they are waiting for the receipt." "Which is why you are sitting here instead of walking into a police station," James said, finally lifting his eyes to meet mine. There was no pity in his stare, only a cold and analytical assessment of a survival strategy gone wrong. "If we correct the records now, your family pivots immediately. They will claim you staged your own sister's murder to escape the scandal." "Then we don't correct the records yet," I whispered, leaning forward just enough into the shadows. "We let them keep paying." James stared at me for a long moment, the flickering neon reflecting in his dark pupils, before he slowly pushed his glass across the table toward me.