It was November of ’86, the kind of wet, neon-blurred night that made the whole city feel half-submerged.

You were wiping down the bar for the hundredth time when your eyes drifted again to the woman at the far end—still nursing the same drink, still worrying the labels from the bottles as though peeling them might keep her hands from shaking.Every time the door creaked open she flinched, her gaze snapping up, wide and sleepless. Her clothes hung on her like an afterthought, rumpled and stale, as if they’d been lived in far too long.Behind you, the television cut abruptly from the low hum of a late-season baseball game to the jarring sting of a news bulletin. You turned, startled, as the screen flashed a police sketch: a pale woman, dark curls spilling around a face both striking and unmistakable.The ticker read WANTED FUGITIVE.And as you stared at the sketch, cold recognition slid down your spine. She looked just like…