Chapter 7: Last Call

Chapter 7: Last Call

The final lock clicked into place with a satisfying thud, sealing The Rusty Mug off from the sleeping town. A profound, welcome quiet settled over the room, a silence broken only by the hum of the beer coolers and the gentle slosh of water in the sink where Chloe was washing the last of the shakers. It was late, well past two in the morning, but she didn't mind. These final moments of the night were her sanctuary.

Dan had left an hour ago, his face alight with a new, easy happiness that had become his default expression over the past few weeks. He was picking Leo up from a sleepover in the morning for their first official ‘Dad’s Weekend’. The words still sounded miraculous on his tongue. He had kissed her goodnight, a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of hope and smelled faintly of the sawdust from his workshop. Their bubble was no longer just intact; it was stronger, reinforced with the steel of a battle won.

Chloe finished rinsing the last glass, placing it carefully in the drying rack. The bar was clean, the stools were up, the lights were low. It was a perfect, peaceful ending to a perfect, normal week.

That’s when the back door creaked open.

The sound was a violation of the quiet, a scratching nail on a flawless record. Chloe’s body went rigid, her hand freezing on the faucet. She turned slowly, her eyes adjusting to the figure silhouetted in the dim light of the alley.

The silhouette stumbled forward, and the weak glow from behind the bar illuminated a ghost. It was Billy Jean, but a warped, funhouse-mirror version of her. Her once-bouncy bleached hair hung in lank, greasy strands around her face, dark roots showing a good two inches of growth. The trendy clothes were gone, replaced by stained sweatpants and a frayed hoodie. Her face, stripped of its usual thick makeup, was pale and gaunt, her eyes wide and unnervingly bright with a feverish desperation. The sickly-sweet perfume was gone, replaced by the sour scent of stale cigarettes and defeat.

“They cut my last paycheck,” Billy Jean said, her voice a raw, cracked whisper. “Said I owed for the till being short on my last three shifts. They’re lying. They just wanted a reason.”

Chloe slowly turned off the water, the silence rushing back in to fill the space between them. She reached for a dry cloth, her movements deliberate, calm. She would not give this specter the satisfaction of a reaction. “What are you doing here, Billy Jean? The bar’s closed.”

“I had to walk three miles from the bus station,” she continued, ignoring the question, her gaze darting around the empty bar as if seeing it for the first time. “My mom’s car broke down. Of course it did. Everything breaks down.”

She took a few unsteady steps closer, her sneakers scuffing on the freshly mopped floor. She looked like a deposed queen returning to a kingdom that had long since forgotten her. “I saw him, you know. Dan. I saw him a few days ago, at the grocery store. With his kid. He looked… happy.” She spat the word like it was poison. “He didn't even see me. Just walked right past me, laughing about something with his son.”

Chloe began polishing a pint glass, her knuckles moving in slow, steady circles. The glass was already clean, but the repetitive motion was a shield, a focus point in the rising tide of tension. “He has a right to be happy.”

“Does he?” Billy Jean’s voice rose, gaining a hysterical edge. “After what I did for him? For his ex? Rachel won’t even take my calls anymore. Said I was an unreliable witness. Unreliable! I lost everything because of that stupid piece of paper!”

“That was your choice,” Chloe said, her voice flat. She placed the gleaming glass on the shelf and picked up another. “You signed your name. You told the lies.”

“Lies that were supposed to help!” Billy Jean shrieked, taking another step forward, her hands clenched into fists. “And it all went wrong. Everything went wrong the second my car disappeared.”

Her wild eyes finally locked onto Chloe’s, and the frantic energy in the room coalesced into a single, sharp point of accusation. The rambling was over. This was it.

“You know, I’ve had a lot of time to think,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial hiss. “Lying awake in my childhood bedroom, listening to my mom snore through the wall. I keep playing it over and over. How did they find me? No one had my new address. It was unlisted. Untraceable.”

Chloe didn't look up from the glass in her hands. She could feel the heat of Billy Jean's stare.

“No one except the people I work with,” Billy Jean breathed, the pieces clicking into place in her mind with an audible snap. “No one except you.”

The silence that followed was absolute. The accusation hung in the air between them, thick and heavy as smoke. This was the final obstacle, the face-to-face reckoning.

“It was you,” Billy Jean whispered, the realization dawning fully on her face, twisting it into a mask of ugly comprehension. “You went to them. You went to the Millers. You told them where I was. You did this to me.”

Chloe finally stopped polishing. She placed the glass down with a soft, definitive click. She looked up, her hazel eyes clear, calm, and as cold as the bottom of a well. She held Billy Jean’s gaze, offering no flicker of guilt, no hint of triumph, nothing but a placid, impenetrable wall.

She delivered the denial with chilling simplicity.

“No.”

The word was not a defense. It was a dismissal. It was a door slamming shut, a lock turning.

Billy Jean stared, her mouth agape, searching Chloe's face for the lie. But there was nothing to find. No nervous tic, no wavering gaze. Just the calm, steady confidence of a person telling their own unshakable truth.

“You’re lying,” Billy Jean stammered, but the accusation had lost its force. It sounded pathetic now, a plea. She took a step back, her frantic certainty beginning to crumble into haunting doubt. “You have to be. It… it all fits…”

“You made a mess of your life, Billy Jean,” Chloe said, her voice still quiet, still even. “You tried to ruin a good man for money, or for sport, I don’t really care which. And it blew up in your face. Don’t you dare try to pin your bad choices on me. Now get out of my bar.”

The finality in her tone was absolute. Billy Jean was left with nothing. No proof. No confession. She had no weapon but her own suspicion, and against Chloe’s granite composure, it was as useless as a paper sword. She was left only with the maddening, horrifying possibility that the quiet, observant bartender she had so casually underestimated had not only seen her coming but had orchestrated her downfall with a precision she couldn’t even comprehend. She hadn’t just lost the game; she had been played from the very first move.

A broken, strangled sound escaped Billy Jean’s lips. Defeated, she turned and slunk away, a wraith retreating back into the darkness of the alley. The back door swung shut behind her, leaving only the memory of her toxic presence.

Chloe stood motionless for a long time, listening to the hum of the coolers reclaim the silence. She let out a slow, steady breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She picked up the last clean glass, holding it up to the dim light. She began to polish it again, the cloth whispering against the smooth surface.

In the curved reflection, she saw her own face, her expression calm, her eyes clear. And then, just for a moment, the corner of her mouth tilted upwards in a faint, deeply satisfied smile. Justice, quiet and absolute, had been served. Last call was over.