There is a grumble from the remaining customers at Cillian’s closing time call. The crowd has thinned considerably, and they all seem pleasantly buzzed, making a lot of happy, late-night noise about the fact that they’ve got to go. Some people seem to think or know that the call doesn’t apply to them.

I pick up the phone Cillian gave me and go, helpless, back to the table where my beer and food are sitting.

Some older women walk up to the bar and start telling Cillian how much they love him, how he’s got to give their daughters a chance.

He’s very popular.

The phone screen background is an auburn golden retriever in a little red bandana. The dog has also been put in a pair of tortoiseshell Ray-Bans. I used to have the same pair but lost them at a karaoke bar in a Korean mall in downtown LA.

According to this phone, since it’s after midnight, it is June 25, like it’s supposed to be. Two days after my birthday, technically, given the time difference and the flight.

I slide open the phone and it asks me for a passcode. I give a shake of the head, feeling like I might actually be going crazy. It scans my face, and opens.

I set it down with a clatter. I have another gulp of water, a swig of beer, and a big bite of soup-dipped sandwich.

In my experience, anytime I think I’m sick, dying, or losing my mind, I need rest, food, and water. I’m always behind on at least one of those things.

I pick up the phone again and open the browser. I type in my name. Not my real name. The one the world knows me by.

Lana Lord.

Unfortunately, it’s not my first time googling myself and so I know that usually, a knowledge panel pops up. It says “American actress.” It lists the things I’ve been in. It has my age and where I’m from. It says that people also search for Jennifer Lawrence, Emma Stone, Sydney Sweeney. There is usually a slew of images of me, good and bad, and whatever recent articles have been written about me or about Brilliance.

But not this time.

This time, I don’t come up at all.

CHAPTER THREE