Dee gave a stiff nod. “That’s what she said. I better get lit now, or she’ll be pissed with me.” She widened her fake smile and sauntered off to talk to someone else.

“Thank you,” I said to Yegina, impressed. “That was the right thing to do.”

Yegina nodded and scanned the bar. “Not what you hoped would happen.”

“I didn’t think he’d be patted on the back and congratulated,” I said. “You did?”

Yegina continued to watch the room. She seemed taller and more rooted at once. In the dimness, her black makeup transformed her face to a stark mask. “Hal was their biggest fund-raiser for twenty years,” she said to the distance. “LAAC is the house that Hal built. But once he leaves it—” She shrugged and focused on me. “Janis hired you for a reason. She wanted someone to find out Brenae’s story. You did. Or you started to. Just because Janis made her move doesn’t mean that yours is over.”

I pictured Janis in the LAAC parking lot, staring at the main building, the sloping green shaded by eucalyptus trees. LAAC is by and large a marvelous place. I want it to thrive. Being here today makes me lean away from the public exposé. Janis believed in institutions. She’d been certain that LAAC would do the right thing.

“Drink?” said Yegina, gesturing to the already crowded bar. “I’ll buy one for you.”

“How about three,” I said bitterly. “I can get them.”

“Might take a while, Strawberry.” She smiled, eyeing my wig.

“Fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

As Yegina moved off to order us a Minor Threat and a Voidoid, I searched for a corner to hide in. I dialed Ray, expecting no answer. The phone went to voicemail.

Five minutes passed, and Yegina had made no headway with the bartender. I plunged through the bar’s packed other side and thrust my red-wigged head into the bartender’s eyesight. Red had a tried-and-true effect that Yegina had overlooked in her pitying dismissal of my outfit. People noticed a color they habitually stopped for. Within moments, I had two martinis myself. Forget the cute cocktails. It wasn’t that kind of night. I waved to Yegina to give up and checked my phone again. No calls or texts.

“Thank you, blokes, for coming tonight,” said Dee, her accent thicker than usual. “Show’s about to start.” She’d taken the small stage and was standing in that swaying, long-legged way that rock stars stand, as if they are hanging from their mics. Dee gestured at a pianist and drummer joining her and launched into her first song. It was not punk at all. She had an airy, nocturnal voice that slid from octave to octave, then abruptly darkened and deepened. Dee was the aural manifestation of Goth Moth, part shadow, part winged creature.

I felt a tug on my cloak.