“Excuse me, sir?”

When I look up, one of Sylvie’s assistants, a silver-haired guy in a black turtleneck and dark jeans, stands at the end of the row. “Yes?”

“Sylvie would like to meet with you in her dressing room.”

I pocket my phone. “Sure thing.”

“You must’ve really made an impression on her,” the assistant says as we head backstage then wind through a narrow hallway.

“She doesn’t usually meet with people after the show?”

“Never.” The guy glances at me. “I’m very sorry about your wife. My dad died a few years ago, pancreatic cancer, so I get it.” His face turns beet red. “Not that it’s the same thing. I mean she was young, your wife.”

“Thanks,” I say, unable to meet his gaze.

“Talking to Sylvie about my dad really helped. Hope you get what you need.”

“I’m optimistic.”

“Here we are.” He knocks on the door. “Sylvie? I’ve got Theo with me.”

The moment before cracking a story reminds me of being a kid, flying down a steep hill on my bike, the world streaming by in an intoxicating blur.

“Thanks, Charlie. Please send him in and you can head home.”

Charlie gives my shoulder a pat. “Good luck, man. You deserve peace.”

Inside the room there’s a cracked leather couch on the left wall, to the right, a mirror with light bulbs around the edges. A stool rests beneath a counter scattered with makeup and brushes. Against the far wall is a small, round table with four chairs. Sylvie is perched in one of them. She’s changed into jeans, a pale pink T-shirt, and gray canvas sneakers. All traces of makeup have been scrubbed off, hair in a ponytail. Stray locks frame a heart-shaped face. She looks younger than onstage, about nineteen, though she recently turned twenty-four. She’s young to be such a good liar. In front of her is a mug of coffee but none for me. That’s okay. I’m buzzing like I’ve had ten cups. Between the empty chair and Sylvie lies Moose, haunches coiled, ready to spring.

After the door closes, Sylvie asks, “Should I call you Theo or Thomas?”

“Thomas is my real name.”

She smiles, but her eyes, so warm onstage, are ice chips. “Have a seat. Thomas.”

Game on. I edge around the dog, slide onto a chair. Sylvie takes a sip from her mug. “I’m a reporter for the Los Angeles Times.”

“So your card said.”

“I write general interest articles and some exposés. The last was about a judge who took bribes. He was sentenced to seven years in prison.”

“Did that story run in any highly regarded newspapers?”

Her insult comes out so sweetly that it almost could’ve been mistaken for a compliment. “The L.A. Times has won forty-five Pulitzer Prizes.”

“Your dead wife must be proud.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “If Katy existed, she would be.” Moose stalks over to Sylvie, stands beside her. They watch me. It’s eerie. I press on. “For the past year, I’ve been at work on an exposé about grief vampires. They’re—”