Johan pressed the flat bottom of a rock against the lower right corner of the plywood, gradually—and quietly—pushing the nails loose. He’d soon created a wide enough gap to slide his hand through, twist the lock, and open the door. No car in the garage. That didn’t mean the house was empty. Kitty might be taking a shower or tucked up in bed, feeling safe and self-satisfied.

Johan flicked the light switch next to the door. A dusty bulb bloomed toward the back of the garage, throwing a triangle of luminance on a shelf arranged with paintbrushes, jars of screws, and several old tools: a claw hammer, a wrench, a chisel, a screwdriver. Johan considered taking one—imagined attacking Kitty in the shower, Psycho-style—then remembered what he’d said to Xander about spilling no blood. He sneered regretfully. There’d be time to make a mess later, though, and he’d get Krókr in on the action.

Johan used the bottom of his T-shirt to wipe the doorknob, lock, and light switch—everything he’d touched—then crossed the garage floor, stepping between double-stacked boxes and piles of junk. The door to the main house was unlocked. Good. Johan pushed it open, his tee wrapped around the knob, and stepped into the hallway.

Silence. Johan stood in one spot, listening intently. No tinkling shower. No flushing toilet. No creaking bedsprings. The hallway spilled into the living room and kitchen. Johan walked through and saw Xander’s silhouette against the back-door blinds, shifting impatiently. This was the only movement.

He edged back into the hallway, which was L-shaped. A number of doors led off it. One was a closet. It was ajar, jackets and shoes leaking out of it. The others would be the bedrooms, a bathroom. He should check them all.

The first bedroom was small and dim, its blinds drawn tight. Johan turned on the light. The bed was unmade, but had been slept in recently. He could tell from the dent in the pillow, and the long black hair standing out against the white fabric. Kitty’s hair. There was a half-finished glass of water and a TV remote on the nightstand. Women’s clothes—T-shirts, a couple of pairs of sweatpants—were folded and laid across the bed.

The second bedroom was larger—a shambolic, musty-smelling space. The actor’s room. There was a wallet on the dresser. Johan flipped it open, and saw it was actually the fake ID and badge of one Detective Colton Stone. It was less authentic up close.

“Nice try, Luke,” Johan whispered. “Sucks for you that I have such shitty taste in movies.”