Page 42 of Crown of Lies

There isn’t time to ask anything else before we’re off to the last place on my list—a dingy dive bar where my dad used to drink. Atlas stands a few feet away, pretending to be interested in the ancient jukebox while keeping an eye on me.

The bartender, an older guy with salt-and-pepper hair and tired eyes, ambles over. “What can I get ya?”

“Information, actually,” I say, sliding a photo of my dad across the bar. “Did you know this man?”

He squints at the picture, recognition dawning on his face. “Yeah, I suppose I did. Ain’t seen him in a while though. You his kid?”

I nod. “He’s… dead.” A lump forms in my throat as I struggle to get the words out. Even now, it doesn’t feel like that can be right, like he really is gone forever. “I’m trying to piece together some things about his past, and I know he used to spend some time here. Do you happen to remember who he used to drink with? Anything you could tell me would help.”

The bartender furrows his brow, absently wiping a glass. “Let’s see… he started coming here, oh, must be twenty years ago now. Always had a regular crowd he’d sit with.”

He sets the glass down, ticking off names on his fingers. “There was Big Mike. Built like a linebacker, that one. Then there was Sammy ‘Two-Fingers.’ Don’t ask how he got that name. A guy everyone called ‘The Professor’, but I don’t think he ever taught a day in his life.”

I lean in, hanging on every word. “Anyone else?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods, warming to the topic. “There was a real quiet fella, went by Hawk. And a woman. Red, we called her. Fiery temper to match her hair.”

I quickly jot down the names in my phone, skimming them over again to try to remember whether I’ve ever heard my father mention any of them.

I’m drawing a blank so far, but it’s hard to think clearly when I’m still standing in front of this stranger—friendly as he is—and I know Atlas is probably eavesdropping on every word.

“Thanks, this is really helpful,” I say, looking up from my phone. “Is there anything else you can remember? Anything odd or out of the ordinary?”

The bartender’s expression softens, a hint of sympathy creeping into his eyes. “Listen, kid, I’m real sorry about your old man. He was a good guy, always had a kind word for everyone.”

I swallow hard, fighting back the lump in my throat. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

He leans in closer, his voice dropping. “You know, I remember when he used to mention you sometimes. How he had the best little girl in the world. And now look at you.” His eyes roam over me, lingering a bit too long. “All grown up into quite the beautiful young woman.”

I stiffen as he reaches out, his fingers brushing against my cheek. Before I can react, a hand clamps down on the bartender’s wrist, yanking it away from my face.

Atlas looms over us, his eyes blazing with fury. In one swift motion, he grabs the bartender by the shirt collar, practically lifting him off the floor before slamming his head against the bar.

“Touch her again,” Atlas snarls, his voice low and dangerous, “and I’ll cut off your fucking hand.”

The bartender’s eyes widen in fear, his face paling as he twists helplessly, trying to lift his head. “Hey man, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it?—”

Atlas presses down harder, cutting off the man’s words. “I saw the way you were looking at her. The way you were talking. I should cut your fucking tongue out right here and now. How does that sound? Or do you think you can keep your goddamn mouth shut for fucking once?”

The bartender nods frantically as best he can, and relief floods his face when Atlas finally releases him. He straightens and stumbles back, putting as much distance between us as possible.

Gritting my teeth, I grab Atlas’s arm, yanking him away from the terrified bartender. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Atlas’s eyes are still blazing as I drag him out of the bar. The cool evening air hits us, but I barely notice it over the red-hot tension crackling between us.

“What the fuck was that?” I hiss, but he just clenches his jaw, refusing to meet my gaze.

We mount our bikes in forced silence, the roar of the engines drowning out any attempt at conversation. I lead the way, my mind racing as fast as my bike. The names the bartender mentioned swim through my head, mixing with the image of Atlas’s fury.

Before I know it, we’re pulling up to the tattoo parlor. It’s late, the neon ‘CLOSED’ sign flickering in the window. But I need answers, and I have a hunch they might be hiding in the back room.

I dismount, fumbling with my keys. Atlas follows, his footsteps heavy behind me. As soon as we’re inside, I whirl to face him.

“Seriously, what the hell was that back there?” I demand, my voice echoing in the empty shop. “You nearly ripped that guy’s arm off!”

His eyes narrow. “He touched you. He was being a creep.”

“I can handle myself,” I snap. “I don’t need you playing white knight. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not some damsel in distress.”

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