Kitty touched the gauze on her brow again, looking at him through a haze of emotion. “I appreciate everything you’re doing, but I can’t depend on guesswork. I need a solid plan of action, and I need it quickly.”

Luke topped up their glasses. The sound of pouring water, amid this dialogue of desperation and fear, was altogether lovely. He handed Kitty her glass—gave her a moment to drink and regain a thread of composure. They welcomed other sounds: birdsong, the breeze, Alexa playing Marvin Gaye. Beyond the backyard, two neighbors quarreled in Spanish and a FOX 11 news chopper hovered over Echo Park.

“I need to get this psycho off my back,” Kitty said, once the moment—all too brief—began to fray at the edges. “It’s the only way.”

“You know any hit men?” Luke asked wryly.

“No. Do you?”

“Unfortunately not,” Luke replied. “Although I used to go on motorcycle rides with Keanu.”

“John Wick?” Kitty cracked a smile. “I wish.”

“So, hey, I don’t know . . .” Luke threw up one hand. “Why not hang here for a few weeks, let the dust settle? Then . . . shit, maybe reach out to Johan, see where his head is at, convince him you’re not going to be a problem.”

“Yeah, I tried reasoning with him—right after he decapitated Sly Boy.” Kitty pressed a hand to one side of her head, perhaps trying to push the memory away. “The bottom line: I stole from him, and I’ve got serious dirt on him. That makes me a threat.”

This was true. Johan was, above all, a star-soaked narcissist, bathing in the adoration of his followers. He’d likely wriggle out of prison time, but Kitty could still throw shade on his reputation. These days, it didn’t take much to get someone canceled.

“And the only way I’m not a threat,” Kitty added, “is if I’m dead.”

With these words, something dropped into Luke’s mind. It fell heavily, with weight and heft, a way—possibly—to hammer through the brickwork. He looked at Kitty, his eyes widening with a kind of desperate hope.

“What if you were dead?” he asked.

“Huh?” Kitty shrank back into her seat, her lips trembling. “Luke, I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.”

He stood up with a flourish and whirled on his heels. A grin surfaced just above his chin and reached all the way to his cheekbones.

“I have an idea,” he said.

Part II
Stray Bullets

13
Dead Kitty

The full-length mirror displayed an old companion, a man he’d become intimate with—had embodied—for fourteen full weeks of principle photography, and another six days of reshoots. His neck was scrawnier and his shoulders not quite as broad, but this was him: Colton Stone, with his focused, steely gaze and cleanly shaved jaw.