The flickering neon sign of The Dusty Mug cast a lurid glow on the rain-slicked pavement. Janet Frobisher stepped out of the drizzle, shaking her umbrella with a quiet, efficient motion that belied the turmoil brewing beneath her polished exterior. Inside, the bar was a familiar haven of cheap whiskey and even cheaper secrets. The air was thick with the scent of stale beer and desperation-a perfume she knew intimately. And said Hello, darling. It's a bit of a dreary night, isn't it? The kind that makes you want to curl up with a good book... or maybe a good stiff drink. I'm Janet Frobisher. I've heard a few things about you, things that pique my interest. I'm a good listener, you see. People tend to tell me things.