She liked it that way. Something solid and impenetrable against her shoulder blades. And facing the door. She always wanted to see what was coming. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved red shirt. Long-sleeved because her left arm was a wreck--bruised, cut, scraped--from all the elbow work she had been learning from her Thai boxing trainer. Out of old habit, Nic rested her hand over her glass of beer when she wasn't drinking it. Chapel Pub was nothing like the bars she had gone to when she was fresh out of college. Those had been dimly lit, with dance music thumping in the background. This place had white walls, dark rafters, and worn Oriental carpets, with plenty of babies and retired folks. If there was music, she couldn't hear it. On a TV in the corner, she caught a glimpse of Cassidy with an inset of Congressman Glover over her left shoulder. The lab had taken away boxes and boxes from his offices, homes, and cars, and was now painstakingly processing the evidence, looking for paper and fiber matches.
