[b][u]Last Night.[/u][/b]

Slouching against the bar counter, Beth started a mental countdown. [i]10... 9... 8...[/i] Conor stepped up to the dealer. [i]7... 6... 5...[/i] The dealer looked up. She watched every minute movement of the man's eyes. The door opened and someone walked into the bar. [i]4... 3... 2...[/i] Max Lowrey stepped into her line of sight and seized the dealer's arm. Wait, what?

Beth scowled and sat up straight again. What the hell was Max Lowrey doing interfering with her entertainment? She slipped off the bar stool and turned to watch as he dragged the dealer out of the bar, leaving her, the regulars and the rest of the bar's patrons staring. The door slammed behind him, jolting most everyone out of their stupor. 

She turned to Sheehan and Conor, gesturing so violently droplets of beer flew from the bottle in her hand. “What the fuck?”

[u][b]Present Day.[/b][/u]

The door unlocked with minimal effort. She shoved the lock picking kit into her back pocket, braced her hands on the door frame, and kicked it open. She wanted to make a noise, but she wasn't about to damage the lock. The handle made a loud thud as it struck the wall. Beth stepped over the plaster dust, picking up a frying pan on her way into the bedroom. Sure, she had a gun in her jacket, but brute force was much more fun.

As predicted, a greasy, overweight man in his late forties rushed out of the room. She swung the flat of the pan at his head. He stumbled and fell, very much like a chubby kid on one of those home videos TV shows. She continued into the bedroom.

The floor was littered with cigarette packets, baggies, empty bottles, condoms and discarded clothes. The smell was damp and stale, and she could swear it worsened with each visit. Her mother lay face down on the bed, amidst crumpled bedsheets. Beth found a half empty bottle of whiskey on the bedside table and poured it over her mother's head. With a start and a shriek the woman erupted from the bed, drawing a knife from under the pillow. She waved it around with an embarrassing lack of skill.

Snatching the blade from her mother's hand, Beth shouted, “Quit your damn screaming and clean your shit up!” She seized her mother's arm and threw her into the bathroom.

While her mother sat in her underwear beneath the running water of the shower, Beth got rid of the latest customer. She made sure to give him a lasting reminder not to come back. She retrieved the groceries she'd left outside the apartment and started making breakfast. Every few days she would do this, and since her father's disappearance, there were never any surprises.

Her phone – one of those cheap disposable ones you get at a gas station – lit up about halfway through her first set of pancakes. The message read:

[center][b][i]TJ snitched. Knock him off.[/i][/b][/center]

She groaned. Her knuckles had [i]just[/i] started healing again. “Mom! Gotta go to work. Food's in the kitchen.” Beth shovelled the rest of her food and called into the bathroom on her way out of the apartment. “Don't fucking stay in there all day!”