The conversation edged away from Esther’s failures to Vectra’s relative triumphs—the time the drummer from Gravedust sent her love letters written in what turned out to be chicken’s blood, the deliciously doomed affair she’d conducted with her married Art teacher who’d wooed her with his one-stroke watercolor brush technique, and the lost love of her life who’d moved to the other side of the world and turned away from the dark.

“Every picture he posts is disgustingly wholesome. We fell out when his sister got a kitten. Didn’t take it too kindly when I made a joke about shaving off its fur so he’d be less tempted to post so many photos.”

Mentally reviewing her own Instagram feed, Esther decided she was safe. Dark nail art, graveyards . . . the closest thing to cute that she’d ever posted was a picture of an owl pellet. If Esther had slumped any farther forward in her eagerness to listen, she’d have ended up sprawled on the table. As it was, just as she was reaching the tipping point, they were interrupted by an approaching lad, who stopped a foot away and cleared his throat.

“Hello, you lovely—”

“No.” Vectra sneered and wafted the boy away like a bad smell in a gesture reminiscent of one that Susan used on many an occasion. God, those two would get on brilliantly . . .

“—Japanese—”

“Leave.”

“—horror?” But Vectra had turned the full force of her formidable glare in his direction, and he dropped a flyer on their table before scuttling off as fast as possible to the other side of the seating area.

Esther leaned forward and picked up the flyer. There was a line of Japanese script and underneath:

A connoisseur’s collection of films by Kōji Shiraishi

(Expect subtitles. Obviously.)

Her eyes widened. A test! Japanese horror was the only genre of film she cared about. Creepy, long-haired women; vengeful videocassettes; unbridled violence . . . what wasn’t to love?

Cautious, not wanting to reveal how much this mattered, Esther held the flyer up to show Vectra, eyebrows raised in a suitably ambivalent manner, allowing Vectra to draw what she would from the expression. Vectra’s gaze flickered over the words before meeting Esther’s.

“Kōji Shiraishi? As if googling Japanese horror directors and not bothering to look beyond the first page makes you a ‘connoisseur.’” Even her air quotes were half-hearted as her eyes rolled back in contempt.

Esther could barely breathe for excitement. Vectra knew who Kōji Shiraishi was. More to the point, she knew so much about the genre that she considered him mainstream. This was it.

“Shall we go anyway?” Too hopeful. Vectra needed her plans peppered with cynicism. “It’s not like there’s anything better to do.”

There was a long, pin-drop moment in which Esther felt like a gladiator waiting for the emperor’s verdict.

Vectra shrugged. “Whatever.”