Nate's bar was warm in the way only old wood and low light could make it. The private room in the back was empty except for them—Gilbert at the bar, Julian slumped in a leather chair, Nate moving bottles around behind the counter like he needed something to do with his hands. The kind of restless energy that came from waiting for news that hadn't arrived yet.
Franz held the door for Arianne. She walked in first.
Gilbert raised his glass. "Finally. Thought you two got lost."
"Traffic," Franz said.
"At this hour?"
"People drive badly at all hours."
Julian looked up from his hands. Didn't say anything. His eyes had the kind of tired that sleep couldn't fix—the dark circles underneath spoke of nights interrupted by a three-year-old who didn't understand why his father wasn't around before. He looked older than the last time Franz had seen him. Not in years. In weight.
Nate nodded at Franz, then at Arianne. "The usual?"
