This second shot was the winner. The hole in the middle of Kitty’s forehead looked deep enough to slot a pencil into. Dried blood caked the skin around it and painted her face in zigzag lines, but she was still identifiable. This, Luke told Denny, was all-important. She had one eye open, staring at nothing. Denny had used an opaque contact lens to make it appear as if all the light behind had been snuffed out. The effect was so convincing that Kitty shuddered when she saw the close-up. “Too real,” she’d said, and Luke had to agree. The severed head bouncing down the stairs in It Came from the Dumpster was great, but this was Denny’s best work.

“Christ,” Xander said under his breath, and handed the photographs back to Luke.

“She died instantly,” Luke said, studying the photos himself, shaking his head sadly. “So there’s that.”

“Yeah.” Xander cleared his throat and pulled his shoulders square. Luke could almost hear his brain ticking, perhaps thinking of ways to break this news to Johan.

The foyer dimmed as a blanket of cloud drifted across the late afternoon sun. Luke turned his face to the tall windows—letting the gravity of the moment carry, then settle into a bleak silence. He sighed, glanced at the photographs once again, then slipped them back into the envelope. They’d worked perfectly. So far, this whole act had gone according to script. He just had to walk in Colton’s boots a little longer, then split.

“Listen, Detective, I . . .” Xander ran one hand over his skull, then—tug-tug—pulled on his earlobe again. “I want to help you, but—”

“Is that Yggdrasil?” Luke asked, pointing at the painting of the tree on the wall. “It is, right? It’s that big-ass mythological tree. Igg-drah-sill. Am I pronouncing that correctly?”

“Uh, yeah.” Xander stiffened, wrinkling his nose like a bulldog.

“Man, that is a beautiful painting.” Luke nodded appreciatively. “I would love something like that in my crib, but I don’t have a large enough wall.”

Xander smiled coldly. “Johan bought it at auction for three hundred thousand dollars.”

“Well, shit, I guess I don’t have a large enough wallet, either,” Luke said, and barked an ugly laugh. “Maybe I should start my own YouTube channel, chasing down freaks and psychopaths.”

“Maybe,” Xander said. His impatience was building, one tic at a time. He drummed tattooed fingers against his thigh. Luke returned to the script. Just a few lines left.

“I worked vice for three years. Made a lot of contacts on the street.” Luke exhibited Colton Stone’s characteristic steely gaze. “Multiple sources have informed me that Kitty was involved with some real lowlife assholes, running drugs for them. Meth, mainly.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”