Sebastian still suffered from bouts of it now, all these sober years later, only the insomnia was triggered by extreme mental stress. God knew he had a shit ton of it, so it didn’t exactly come as a surprise that he found himself lying wide-awake at two in the morning. He knew the reason why, too. He also had a strong idea about how to fix it, but had been putting it off for months now because the remedy was . . . well, insane.

So he had two choices: lie here in bed and continue to stare at the ceiling, or get up and do what he needed to do now, in the quiet of the night, when no one was watching.

Sebastian pulled back the sheets. He dressed quickly, making sure to grab what he needed from the downstairs closet, and then headed for the garage.

Traffic on the 405 was light. He made it to Westwood in good time.

In the daylight, the Parker Brothers Memorial Park resembled a peaceful, meditative retreat more than a cemetery—a beautiful and immaculately landscaped area with a rich, deep green lawn, abundant flowers, trees, and sunshine. Sebastian suspected Trixie picked this place because of the number of celebrities who were buried there. Trixie once dreamed of being an actress. That dream got put on hold when she discovered she was pregnant. She lived the life of a single mother until she moved in with Sebastian, four years later. Trixie went back to acting, got bit parts in re-creations of murders in true-life crime shows, and then eventually left it for what she felt was her true calling: being a stay-at-home mother.

The Park, as it was called, was obviously closed at such an ungodly hour. Sebastian drove past the entrance to visit the dead—a pair of wrought iron gates secured by a chain and padlock—and pulled onto the next side street and then parked in a neighborhood less than half a mile away. He walked with his head lowered, his jacket collar turned up, and his LA Dodgers baseball cap pulled low across his forehead. He also wore a pair of eyeglasses. A bit of overkill, he supposed, but every little bit helped when you were trying to disguise yourself.

Trixie had opted for a simple gravestone. It sat flat against the earth and contained her name and the dates of her brief time here on earth. His destination was two spots over—the grave site of an immensely popular yet troubled female singer who had died young of a heroin overdose. Her grave site was decorated with a haphazard mess of half-lit candles, flowers, cards, drawings, and assorted trinkets (he saw a Matchbox car and a perfume bottle, of all things) from fans who came from all over the world to visit her. If he was being recorded, he wanted to appear like some nut who had been touched by her haunting songs. I’m probably nuttier than those people, he told himself, doing what I’m about to do.