It was supposed to be just a detour. One drink, maybe two. A roadside bar off the highway called The Iron Rack—a place Ethan remembered from years ago, where the whiskey was cheap and the pool table still had burn marks from cigarettes long stubbed out. He’d told Lena it would be quiet, out of the way. No expectations. But the moment Lena stepped into the backroom, the smell hit her first—whiskey, smoke, and something els...