storytime

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I was working the Tuesday night shift at this dive bar downtown. Slowest night of the week, just me and the cook. I'd been bartending at The Rusty Nail for three years—long enough to recognize every regular and memorize their orders.

Around 10 PM, this woman came in—expensive coat, shaking hands, kept looking over her shoulder. She didn’t belong in our place with sticky floors and neon beer signs. The kind of woman who probably ordered wine by region, not color.

She sat at the far end, ordered a vodka soda, then leaned forward and whispered, "Is Angela working tonight?"

I'd been trained on this. "Angela" was our code word for someone needing help. The owner implemented it after his niece had a bad experience at another bar. I casually replied, "She's in the back. Let me check on her."

What she didn’t know was I recognized her. Not personally, but I’d seen her face on a billboard—Elizabeth Chen, real estate mogul. Her husband’s medical practice had the floor above her office. They were that perfect power couple from magazine spreads about "Cincinnati's Elite." Now she was hiding in my bar, terrified.

In the kitchen, I told Cook to watch the door while I called 911. Marco, our cook, was an ex-con who’d turned his life around but still had the build of someone who bench-pressed in prison for fun.

"Tell them it’s urgent," Marco said, wiping his hands. "I’ve seen that look before. My sister had it before she ended up in the hospital."

I returned and placed a napkin in front of her with "Police coming. Safe room in back" written on it. I slid it across with her drink, making it look like I was just serving her.

Her eyes filled with tears. She clutched the napkin and nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Thank you," she mouthed silently.

I wiped down the bar near her. "First time in the neighborhood?" I asked, loud enough for anyone entering to hear.

"Yes," she said, voice steadier than I expected. "My friend recommended it."

I noticed the silk scarf around her neck despite the warm spring night. When she reached for her drink, the sleeve of her coat slipped just enough to reveal finger-shaped bruises on her wrist.

"My husband doesn’t know I’m here," she whispered. "He tracks my phone, but I left it in my office. Said I was working late."

"Smart move," I said, sliding her a bowl of pretzels to cover the talk.

"He’s got the police chief on speed dial," she continued, eyes darting to the door. "They play golf. When I called 911 last month, the officers just laughed it off as a 'domestic disagreement' after realizing who he was."

That explained why she came here instead of going to authorities. The realization made my stomach turn.

The door jangled open and she flinched, knocking over her drink. It was just a college kid, realized he had the wrong bar, and left.

"He’ll find me," she said, hands shaking so bad I had to help her hold her glass. "He always does."

"Not this time," I promised, though I had no right to.

I texted my manager. Three minutes later, he responded: "Stall him if he comes. Police contact is Officer Rivera. She’ll believe us."

Time crawled. She kept checking her watch.

"He has a board meeting till 10:30," she said. "If he goes home and I’m not there..."

Then the door swung open. A man in a business suit walked in, scanning the room. When he spotted her, his face hardened. He didn’t look like a monster—that was the terrifying part. He looked like someone who’d help you change a flat. Pressed suit, salt-and-pepper hair, expensive watch catching the dim bar light.

"There you are," he said, voice eerily calm. "Your phone died? I’ve been worried sick."

I stepped between them. "Sir, can I get you a drink?"

His smile never reached his eyes. "No. We're leaving." He grabbed her arm, right over the bruises.

"I’m not going with you, Michael," she said, trembling. "The divorce papers are filed."

His grip tightened. "You think anyone will believe your lies? I’m a respected surgeon. You're just—"

Our cook appeared with the biggest knife from the kitchen. "Problem here, boss?"

Michael hesitated long enough for blue lights to flash through the windows. He bolted for the back, but police were already there.

Two months later, she came back with a cake and a restraining order to show us. Her wrist was still bruised, but she was smiling for the first time.