Kitty slurped the last of her root beer and they left the restaurant. The air outside was baked and gritty. They took a moment to acclimate, standing on the sidewalk, putting their sunglasses on.

“We still have some time to kill,” Luke said. “This could be a long day.”

“Already has been. But maybe you’ll look back on this as the day that everything changed.” She considered this for a second or two, then dropped her hands onto her hips and added, “For the better, of course.”

“Jesus,” Luke said. “Things can’t get much worse.”

17
Luke’s House

Thirty minutes to Silver Lake, on a good day, but an accident had backed up Interstate 10 and Santa Monica Boulevard was its usual shitshow of lights and traffic. Xander came off at the 405, looking to loop around and cut south through the hills.

“Ruben, where are you?”

Ruben, on the phone: “Johan . . . hey. I’m at the gym.”

“Echo Park?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, good. I need you to do something for me.”

“Sure. Almost finished here.”

“Now. This is important.”

A pause. Johan could almost hear the vague clockwork of Ruben’s brain. “Oh right, is it about—”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, man.”

“Head out to Kitty’s place. Watch the house opposite. There should be a blue piece-of-shit Dodge in the driveway—”

“Yeah, I know the one.”

“Scope the scene. If anybody leaves, follow them. Me and Xan are on our way. Traffic’s a bitch, though.” The 405 was moving, but volume had them pinned at forty. “We should be there in . . . shit, I don’t know . . . whenever.”

“I can be there in fifteen,” Ruben said.

“Make it ten.”

Xander weaved between lanes, finding any car-sized gap that advanced their average speed, flooring it when he could. His flinty eyes flicked between the mirrors. His jaw was locked as tight as his grip on the wheel.

“Fuck this traffic.”

“Ruben’ll be there in ten,” Johan said. “Chill.”

The Mustang’s engine made animal sounds. Its thumped-up panels rumbled. Xander swerved into the outside lane. The road opened up and he jumped on the gas. They accelerated to eighty before a Jeep cut in front of them, forcing the brakes. The tires moaned and smoked, leaving long prints along the blacktop. Johan surged forward in the passenger seat, bracing himself on the dash.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “You almost put me through the fucking windshield.”

“That son of a bitch cut in front of me.” Xander tailgated the Jeep, slamming the horn.

“I told you to chill.”

Xander did, then, insomuch as he drove less aggressively, but he remained hunched at the wheel, stiff as steel. The miles—getting closer to Silver Lake—did nothing to relax him.

“Remember,” Johan said, speaking between full, steadying breaths—he wasn’t exactly chill, either. “Finding Kitty is our priority. If she isn’t there, we need the actor to talk. Maybe let me handle that.”