The volatile nature of their relationship was in full effect on the night she went missing. They were at a party at Uncle Lizard’s, a biker-style roadhouse in the Los Padres Forest. It was either a launch or album-wrap party. Luke didn’t know which, only that it was busy and loud, and that he and Lisa were drunk when they arrived. They’d gotten a head start at their hotel in Santa Barbara (where they’d also had their first fight of the day), and had downed a bottle of red wine during the twenty-minute limo ride to Uncle Lizard’s. Luke remembered arriving—he’d met Axl Rose outside and they’d stumbled in together. There were a few other celebs present but mainly it was music industry peeps and starfuckers. He remembered doing tequila slammers with the band—whoever the fuck they were—and posing for photographs. Things started getting blurry around midnight. He had vague memories of dancing on a table and snorting vodka out of a spoon . . . of drinking Knob Creek directly from the bottle and flirting with some chubby goth chick outside the men’s restroom. Then there was the second fight with Lisa. He had no idea how it had started or who was at fault. His only recollection was of calling Lisa a talentless whore, and of her trying to break a bottle over his head.

This no doubt appeared shocking to their fellow partygoers—and indeed, many would later communicate their shock to the authorities—but it was just another night for Luke and Lisa.

Did they kiss and make up? Luke couldn’t say for sure, but he had an imprecise memory of being outside with her . . . close and hot . . . the smell of the forest and of her perfume.

“I don’t think it’s working,” Lisa had said, or maybe he’d dreamed that. Either way, he didn’t think she was talking about their marriage. There was something else, something in her eyes . . .

The next thing he remembered was waking up at the foot of a tree, thirty yards from Uncle Lizard’s. Morning light sloped through the pines. A jogger crouched over him, plum-faced and wide-eyed.

“Jesus Christ, mister,” he said. “I thought you were dead.”

“Hnnh . . . whuuggh?”

“Thought you’d taken one to the chest.” The jogger gestured at the blood down the front of Luke’s shirt. “A bullet, that is.”

Luke looked down at his shirt. “Whufuggdat?” He tried sitting up, then shuddered as a thunderclap of pain reverberated through his skull. Instinctively, he reached for the back of his head and felt a good-sized goose egg. No blood, but the skin was tight and tender. He must have gone for a walk in the woods, passed out, and bumped his noggin on the tree trunk.