Flight 961 to Cincinnati, touching down at 8:26 p.m. local time, then a ninety-minute drive to Louisville. She would sleep tonight at her mama’s house, in her old room. Tomorrow, she would meet Courtney Caruso for lunch, then together they would pick up Levi Caruso from his private (and very expensive) Montessori school.

Luke edged into a drop-off spot. He got out of the car, hooked Kitty’s luggage from the trunk, and hefted it around to her.

“Jesus, that’s heavy,” he said.

“Gifts for the fam,” Kitty said. “L.A. fashion. My mama’s going to be the only one in her church with a hat from Two Rodeo.”

“I think the Good Lord would approve.”

Kitty smiled and patted the basketball. “I think the Good Lord will probably redirect my luggage to Boise, Idaho, which is the reason I’m holding on to this.”

“Smart.”

“I don’t even know if Levi will like it,” Kitty said. “Courtney told me he’s a basketball fan, but what if he doesn’t like the Lakers?”

“Everybody likes the Lakers,” Luke said. “Even if they don’t want to admit it.”

She curled one arm around him, a loose but affectionate hug. Kitty knew a lot more people in Los Angeles now—it was amazing what a little bit of celebrity could do—and considered some of them friends, but Luke was at the top of the pile.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, not letting him go. “It’s like an audition, but the most important audition of my life.”

“No, Kitty. In auditions you pretend to be someone else.” He smelled of Dior cologne and his arms felt as strong as branches. “With this, you just have to be yourself.”

She beamed, her head against his chest, and held him a while longer.

He was in the neighborhood, so paid a visit to his old friend at Inglewood Park Cemetery. Floyd Tallent’s grave was a mound of flowers, many of them wilting in the California sun. A headstone had been added—white marble, etched with musical notes. His epitaph was simple, beautiful, two words: soul man. For most, this referenced his career in music. For Luke, it spoke to the brilliant light that Floyd had inside him. Here was a man whose friendship had never faltered, and who’d believed in Luke when everybody else had turned their backs. He had entertained, comforted, and counseled. On their final afternoon together, he’d told Luke to stop making excuses, and to rediscover his sense of purpose.

“I’ve been trying,” Luke whispered, running his fingers across that two-word epitaph. “I’m getting closer, but there’s still some way to go.”