“We had Jane’s Addiction here last week. Shit got wild.”

Luke nodded appreciatively. He was saying all the right things, Kitty thought, but his body language was rigid with tension, as if someone had a pistol pressed to his lower back. When the door behind them opened, Luke swiveled so quickly that he almost fell off his stool. Savannah frowned at this. It was subtle, mostly hidden by the wide brim of her cowboy hat, but Kitty noticed.

A young couple—not the bat-faced man—had entered the bar. Savannah called to them to sit anyplace, that someone would be right with them, and they chose one of the booths. Luke sighed. He took another deep drink, then gestured at the celebrity photos behind the bar.

“Quite the wall of fame,” he said. “Dave Grohl, Anthony Kiedis, Damon Layne. Shit, I would love to have been here that night. I’m a big Mustang Kick fan.”

“Yeah,” Savannah said. “Damon’s a super-cool guy.”

“He’s an asshole,” the smoky-haired woman opined from three stools away. She rolled bloodshot eyes toward Luke, her red-stained teeth creeping over her lower lip.

“Jesus, Dawn, you think everyone’s an asshole,” Savannah retorted, hands on hips, looking indignantly at the woman. “Just drink your wine, dammit.”

Dawn muttered something in return, but Kitty didn’t hear it beneath the strident power chords of whatever rock song was now playing. Luke and Savannah exchanged bemused looks, then Savannah strolled to the other side of the bar and started slicing limes. Their conversation had been derailed, and Kitty thought this was for the best. Luke needed to take a few deep breaths and regroup.

“You okay?” she asked him.

“She likes to talk,” Luke said, nodding toward Savannah. “That’s a good thing.”

“Yeah, but you need to bring it down a notch. You’re twitchy as hell.”

Twenty minutes passed. They refreshed their drinks, and a few more customers entered the bar. Savannah was busy for a moment, and by the time she was on top of things, Luke had loosened up. Not all the way, but hopefully enough.

He brought PictoShark up on his phone again. When Savannah came by to top up Dawn’s wine and wipe the bar down, Luke flipped the screen toward her.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re on PictoShark.”

“We’re on all of them,” Savannah said, stepping closer to look at the photo that Luke had pulled up—a couple of bartenders posing with replica Winchesters. “Facebook, TikTok, YouTube. Social media is king.”

“I just followed you,” Luke said, and grinned.

“Cool. Keep up with the latest news.”

He quickly swiped through a few more shots, stopping on one of a middle-aged guy, perched on the edge of the stage, strumming an acoustic guitar.

“Jesus, is that . . .” Luke zoomed in on the photo. “Is that Ethan Hawke?”