“You were able to disgorge the shadow when I called on the link we share,” Henry continued calmly, pulling into traffic. “While I can’t protect the whole city, it is possible that should it come to it, Tina will be able to do the same.”

“Disgorge the shadow?”

“Yes.”

“After one quick snack? Don’t you think highly of yourself.”

“Tony . . .”

He slouched as far as the seat belt allowed, picking at one of the scabs on his palm. “And she’s old enough to be my mother!”

Although not a good judge of human aging—it went by too fast as far as he was concerned—Henry guessed the script supervisor was in her mid to late fifties. “I’m significantly older than that.”

“Yeah, but you don’t look it. You and Tina, well, there’s this whole creepy Harold and Maude thing going on.”

“Who?”

“Harold and Maude. A Hal Ashby movie from 1971. Bud Cort and Ruth Gordon; it was brilliant, a cult classic, and you need to watch more movies without subtitles but again, not the point.” Tony ran his less scabby hand back through his hair and sighed. “You don’t just do that whole crunch, munch, thanks a bunch thing with people like Tina.”

“She won’t remember it.”

“Good.”

Henry turned onto Hastings and sped up to make the next light. “You were about to make an observation; back before we spotted the van?”

“Was I? Well, it’s totally gone now.”

“Let’s hope it wasn’t important.”

“Yeah, let’s.”

There were half a dozen cars in the studio parking lot when Henry turned off Boundary Road; Arra’s hatchback conspicuously not among them.

Henry parked where he had the night before, hoping that passing security would consider it to be his spot and not question his presence. He’d long ago learned that life was simpler if it was arranged in his favor rather than adjusted after the fact. “Do you know who these cars belong to?”

“No.” Tony popped his seat belt and opened the car door. “I think the old Impala belongs to one of the writers.”

“I used to have a car just like that,” Henry noted as they started for the back of the building.

“Well, you know what they say, there’s a dark green Chevy Impala in everyone’s past.”

“Who says that?”

“Them.”

“And who are they?”

Tony snorted softly as he stopped in front of the keypad. “The same guys who say you don’t put the bite on women old enough to be my mother.”

“You don’t think that attitude’s a little ageist?” Henry asked, leaning against the wall.