“The best part, the key part: he won’t suspect you in any of this, because he’s going to think you’re dead. So you can go home to Kentucky, be with your family. Then, when you see on the news that Johan has blown his brains out or gone to prison, you can return to L.A. and pick up where you left off.”

Kitty shook her head. That little cluster of hope swelled inside her, but she was afraid to encourage it. The possibility of getting her acting career off the ground, of prospering in L.A. and making her family—her son—proud, seemed ridiculously far away. These were the aspirations of a different person. Someone carefree . . . unbroken.

Still, she had something now—a chance, albeit fragile, to turn this around.

Tears streamed from her eyes. Luke handed her a Kleenex but it wasn’t enough. She got out of her seat, went to him, and hugged him as tightly as her aching body could manage.

“Shhh . . . hey, it’s okay,” he said. “I’ll get you through this. I promise.”

Kitty wondered how this man could be behind his wife’s disappearance, her murder. The negativity and vitriol directed at him may or may not be justified. How could Kitty know for certain? She only had her own experience to go on, and where everyone else saw darkness, she saw light.

It seemed the only thing she’d done right the entire time she’d been in L.A. was save Luke’s life.

Luke had said that the Camaro he’d rented was due back at six p.m., and that he’d be home by six-thirty at the latest. Kitty tried not to watch the clock, but this became increasingly difficult as the day wore on. Six-thirty came and went. No sign of Luke. Kitty paced the backyard. She watched ten minutes of The Umbrella Academy. She redressed the wound on her head. Seven o’clock. Still nothing. Her anxiety ramped up. Had it all gone terribly wrong? Had Johan recognized Luke—or Colton Stone, for that matter—and driven him out to Jink’s for a hands-on demonstration of the blood-eagle ritual?

She popped a Xanax, curled up on the bed in the spare room, and managed a light sleep despite her elevated anxiety. There were no nightmares, only sensations: falling, flying, running. She woke unrested—8:42 p.m., according to the clock on the nightstand—and walked through to the kitchen.

Johan sat at the breakfast bar, looking at her through Nordic-rune eyes.

Kitty shrieked and reached for one of the glasses on the kitchen counter—something she could throw, use as a weapon. Johan got up off the stool and stepped toward her.

“Kitty,” he said, his hands raised defensively. “Kitty . . .”

She was about pitch the glass when she realized that it wasn’t Johan’s voice.