Amanda was waiting at the bar at Riffs. I hadn't seen her since the night after Lauren was shot. I didn't see her turn her head my way, but she must have seen my reflection—she lifted
her purse off the stool beside her as I approached. The purse looked expensive. Amanda looked expensive. The bag was not only holding a place for me but also served to caution strangers to stay away. Amanda was the
type of woman—confident, composed, pretty but not gorgeous—who attracted people, welcome or unwelcome, male or female, eager to fill an empty stool beside a stranger at a bar.