“Why are you making this difficult? It’s simple math. Six plus one equals freedom.”

“And that one is somewhere close. I can still sense it.”

“Where? Down there?” Tremon gestured downhill to the lights of Monterey Park. “Doing what? Nibbling on dumplings? Perhaps roasting a duck? Honestly, my dear, what are you thinking?”

“What if I told you that Hell would receive something special to remember me by?”

“Would you really expect me to believe that you are risking your existence out of an affection for Hell?

“Of course not. But the seventh will be worth the wait—for all of us.”

“Very well, Shizuka,” Tremon finally said. “For now, I will play along, if only because your past souls have been so well received. But remember—you have been allotted seven times seven years to deliver seven souls. Forty-eight of those years have passed. If you do not free yourself by this time next year, Hell will have no need to remember you, for there you will be—every special day, every special moment, for all eternity.”

With that, Tremon Philippe was gone.

Katrina checked her phone. Good, she had signal. Quickly, she sent another text to Evan. She hadn’t worked out the details, but she’d settle in with Evan for a while, find a job, then start making more music videos.

Beyond that? She’d figure it out.

Katrina winced as the bus shifted lanes. She clutched her violin and eventually drifted back to sleep.

When she next awoke, the bus was rumbling off of Rosemead Boulevard and into the parking lot of Shun Fat, a huge Asian wholesale market and restaurant supply complex. Already, people were waiting to pick up relatives.

Katrina tried to wake herself as she got off the bus and waited at the sidewalk for her bag. The two old women studied her and whispered. One pointed at her face.

Katrina touched her face, then looked down at her sleeve. Crap. While asleep, her foundation had rubbed off. Which meant they saw the bruises. Her black eye …

These old ladies were strangers; their looks couldn’t hurt her. Their stares and judgments were nothing compared with what she had been through. She told herself that this shouldn’t hurt. It was nothing.

And nothing shouldn’t hurt at all.

3

Lan Tran loved her donut. Her giant concrete and plaster donut.

Once common in LA’s Eisenhower years, just a few of these giant donuts remained in greater Los Angeles. There were Kindle’s Do-nuts, Dale’s Donuts, and Randy’s Donuts, of course. Donut King II was in Gardena. In La Puente, there was the drive-through Donut Hole.

And here, above El Monte, rose Starrgate Donut.

Lan’s donut meant a future. Her donut meant family.