To the outside world, it appeared that Christina Pines sat at a bar sipping scotch neat and interacting with no one.
In reality, Christina was drinking a Diet Coke that the bartender had poured into a whiskey tumbler for her, even though she had said the words, “Scotch, please.” She swirled the dark liquid in the glass occasionally as though it actually were fine, high-proof liquor.
The other thing no one else noticed was that the bartender spoke to her. Every time he went past, he'd let her know whatever he gleaned from the other patrons in the bar.
She'd sent him on little missions. The bartender would ask someone what they'd like to drink and, in the same breath, ask them if they'd seen a man. He'd flash them the picture Christina had handed to him: Dr. Murray Marks. The patrons would check their memories for the tall, lanky man whose dark hair was shot through with strands of silver. And the patrons would say yes or no.
Mostly, they said no.
In fact, all of them, but one. And that was all Christina needed.
Next, she’d parked herself next to the man who said he'd seen Dr. Murray Marks about three days ago. Swirling her Diet Coke in her glass one more time, she leaned in close.
The low buzz permeated her brain as she pushed him a little harder than usual, though she hardly noticed the sensation anymore.
Casually, as though they'd been in conversation for some time, the man said, “Yeah, I saw him. He stopped for gas at the convenience store while I was there.”
“What was he driving?” Her tone suggested she was asking about the weather.
“Blue Volvo.”
Not his car, Christina thought—at least, not the one they'd known about. She nodded. “What else should I know?”
The man shrugged as though his remaining information was trivial. She didn’t care how he felt about it, though—only that he gave it to her. “Anything is helpful.”
“He bought granola bars and bottled water, paid for gas, then headed north.”
“Which gas station was this?” She pulled a napkin out of the little holder and a pen out of her pocket and slid them over to the man. He answered not with words now, but with a fair enough sketch that she could find the place.
Christina polished off the last of her Diet Coke and mouthed Thank you, even though he wouldn't remember it later. None of them would remember any of it. Even if they were questioned by the police, it would all be fuzz. It wasn’t worth the effort on her part to replace the lost memory with something else.
The only part of it that had been real was the shot of pink color that ran through her hair.