“I don’t want to hang anything over your head, brother. I just need your help.” Luke gestured at Kitty, who stood awkwardly by the door. He had cleared out his garage and backed his car in, so that he could smuggle her out of the house without being seen. “We both do.”

“I get it, man. I do. But I’m swamped right now. I just . . . I . . .”

“You do this for me, Denny, this one big favor, and we are square.” Luke drew an invisible square in the air and nodded. “I fucking promise you, man. That seventeen K . . . history.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, shit. What is it you want?”

Luke took a deep breath and gestured at Kitty again. “She needs to look dead. Bullet holes in her head and chest. A realistic amount of blood.”

Denny shrugged. “Sure, man. Whatevs.”

“No, not fucking whatevs. This needs to look like the real fucking deal.”

“Cool, man, yeah. I can do that.”

“Good,” Luke said. “And I want you to dress me up like Colton Stone.”

“Colton Stone?” Denny frowned. “Who the fuck is Colton Stone?”

“He’s the character I played in Out of Midnight. The cop.” Luke spread his hands in an affronted fashion. “You know, with the blond hair.”

“That was Don Johnson played that guy.”

“It was fucking me.”

“Shit, really?” Denny scratched the back of his head and glanced briefly around his studio. “Okay, well, I think I’ve got a wig that’ll work . . . somewhere. I don’t have the wardrobe, though.”

“I’ve got the wardrobe,” Luke said. “I’ve got the sidearm. I’ve even got Colton Stone’s ID.”

“Then we’re all set.” Denny nodded. “You want to do this now?”

“Yeah,” Luke said. “Right fucking now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Xander said. His shocked expression was extremely satisfying. He didn’t doubt the authenticity of the photographs. Not for one second. “Jesus, what . . . what happened?”

“She got shot is what happened.”

“I can see that, but . . . but . . .” Color had risen from inside Xander’s collar, spreading across his throat in pink blotches. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say.”

There were two photographs. One was a full shot of Kitty slumped in some dim concrete corner (Denny’s garage), dressed in the same dirty blue bra and sweatpants she’d been wearing when Luke found her in his backyard. Only one strap of the bra was still blue, though; the rest was dark with blood. More blood covered her body and pooled across the concrete around her. The entry wound in her chest was small but distinct. One grubby sneaker lay on the ground nearby.

“The coroner pulled a forty-caliber slug out of her temporal lobe,” Luke said, pointing at the other photograph—a close-up of Kitty’s face. “It was in the part of her brain that made her feel emotions. You know, like fear.”