A woman in the bathroom stares at me while I wash my hands and says to her friend, loud enough for the words to carry through the stall door: "That's her. The Halstead girl."
I dry my palms on my jeans, walk out, head behind the bar, and pour the next drink.
The mask is on. It's been on for years.
But the hits keep coming.
A man at the counter asks if I'm related to "that Halstead guy" while I'm pouring his beer. He doesn't lower his voice, and I doubt he cares who hears.
I set the beer in front of him, and my expression doesn't move. "Can I get you anything else?"
He picks up the glass. "My wife went to school with Christine Pelletier."
Christine's name in a stranger's mouth. Aimed at me across the bar like he was making small talk and not gutting me with it.
I don't respond. My fingers wrap around the rag on the counter and squeeze.
Ellie appears from the kitchen.
I don't know how she heard. The woman has ears that could pick up a whisper through a concrete wall and the timing of a sniper.
She walks to the bar, stands directly across from the man, and folds her arms.
"You got something you want to say to my bartender, you say it to me first." Her voice is low and level and carries more authority per syllable than most people manage in a paragraph.
The man blinks. "I was making conversation."
Ellie leans forward, both palms flat on the bar. "No. You were making a point. And the point's been made."
She straightens. "Now finish your beer and get the fuck out of my bar."
He opens his mouth.
"That wasn't a suggestion." Ellie doesn't raise her voice. The room has gone silent around her, and every person within earshot has stopped breathing.
He finishes his beer in two long pulls, drops a five on the counter, and walks out.
Ellie watches him go. Then she turns to me, leaning one hip against the bar. "You okay?" Low, for me alone.
I swallow around the knot in my throat. "Yeah."
She nods once. Picks up the five, folds it, and tucks it into my tip jar.
"He doesn't get to come back." She says it to me, but loud enough for the room. "Anyone else got opinions about who works behind my bar, the door's right there."
Nobody moves.
Ellie squeezes my shoulder once, firmly, and goes back to the kitchen.
I pour the next drink and pretend my eyes aren't stinging.
The rest of the shift is a gauntlet. Not every customer is cruel. Most of them don't know, don't care, are here for cheap beer and a good time.
But the ones who know make sure I feel it.
A woman at a booth asks Tildie if "that Halstead girl" is really working here now.
Tildie looks at her, picks up her half-finished margarita, and says "That Halstead girl made your drink, so if you've got a problem with her, you've got a problem with the salt on your rim." The woman doesn't order another round.