Darlene Strayer nodded. “Copy that,” she said. “So what’s second?” “Drugs.” “And third? Fourth? Fifth?” “Drugs. Drugs. And drugs.” “I’m sensing a pattern here.” Darlene smiled a quick, tight smile. She picked up her shot glass and moved it around in a small level circle, making the river-brown liquid wink and shiver. The whiskey didn’t slosh; it shivered. Barely. Darlene had no intention of finishing her drink. Bell Elkins was sure of it. She had used the technique herself on occasion: Order a drink, because not to order one was too conspicuous, especially when your invitation had been casual but specific. Hey, want to meet for a drink? Take one tiny sip. No more. You needed to keep a clear head. Use the glass as a prop, a thing to do with your fingers, to stop those fingers from fidgeting. Lift the glass, tilt it around, make the liquid move. Lower the glass. Pretend to be just about to take a second sip. But somehow, you never do. Because this little get-together, Bell had recognized right away, had nothing whatsoever to do with alcohol.
