Two uniformed officers came to his house. They asked all the right questions and took notes, but Luke expressed dismay at the muted response. He wanted action, dammit—search parties, sniffer dogs, fucking helicopters. Lisa was a celebrity, for God’s sake. The senior officer pointed out that Lisa had been missing for fewer than twenty-four hours, and that she would, in all likelihood, return voluntarily. He suggested Luke get in touch with all of Lisa’s family, friends, and associates, and inform the Van Nuys Division of any developments.

“That’s it?” Luke asked. “You guys are done?”

“Not quite,” the senior officer replied. “The shirt you were wearing. The one in the photograph. Do you still have it?”

Luke dragged a hand down his face, then gestured in the direction of the driveway. “I packed it up with the rest of our shit at the hotel. The bags are still in the Tesla.”

“We’d like to take it with us,” the senior officer said.

“The shirt? What do you—” Luke stopped abruptly, interrupted by the cold, metallic chime of the penny touching down. “Oh right. Yeah . . . yeah, of course.”

Thirty-six hours later, Lisa still hadn’t returned and Luke sat in an interrogation room with two detectives, one of them—Tera Montecino—assigned to Van Nuys from LAPD’s Detective Support and Vice Division. Montecino had earned a reputation narrowing the gap between unsolved homicide and missing persons cases, and with the blood on Luke’s shirt being matched to Lisa’s, she was intent on adding to her résumé.

“Lisa is strong, beautiful, and successful. Two platinum albums, two Grammy Awards. After working the club circuit for nine years, she finally has the career she’s always dreamed of.” Montecino had leaned closer to Luke, her iridescent hair pooling on the table between them. “A woman like that . . . spirited, ambitious . . . she doesn’t simply walk away, leave it all behind.”

“No,” Luke agreed, his voice just above a whisper.

“So . . .” The detective lifted one side of her wrinkled mouth. “What happened to her?”

She showed no sympathy, despite Luke’s tears. On the contrary, his damage and confusion fueled her. She circled the table ravenously, pulling and picking at everything he said. She had him go through his version of events multiple times, and asked the same questions from different angles.

“Does Lisa’s success threaten you?”

“No.”

“I read in an interview that she wants to get into movies. Does that threaten you?”

“No.”

On and on. Around and around. The minutes crawled into hours, and each increment of time had its own threatening shape and feel. Luke fought to keep his cool, but resisted asking for a lawyer. That would only make him look more guilty. Besides, he wanted to work with the police, not against them.