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Following me.

The same someone who killed Betty?

Or someone else entirely?

As I reach the diner’s brightly lit entrance, I glance back one last time. For an instant—so brief I might have imagined it—I think I see a figure standing in the shadows across the street. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Watching.

Then a passing car’s headlights sweep the spot, and there’s nothing there.

Just rain, and darkness, and the growing certainty that I’m being hunted.

4

CALLAHAN

The headache starts as I’m leaving the office, a dull throb behind my right eye.

Night has fallen over Los Angeles, the streets glossy with recent rain, neon signs reflecting in puddles like portals to some garish underworld. I loosen my tie as I walk to my car, irritated by how the fabric seems to constrict my throat.

These headaches have been getting worse. More frequent.

I unlock the Oldsmobile, sliding behind the wheel and sitting for a moment in the dark. The folder with Elizabeth Short’s photos and letters rests on the passenger seat. Virginia West’s distress still lingers in my mind—the quiet dignity of her grief, the determination to find justice for a sister she barely knew.

Starting the car, I pull into the sparse evening traffic. I need food, a shower, and sleep, in that order. Tomorrow I’ll see Coleman, get what information the LAPD is willing to share about the Black Dahlia. There’s a rhythm to investigations, steps that can’t be rushed.

The pain intensifies as I drive, spreading from behind my eye to encompass my entire skull. Lights from oncoming cars seem too bright, each one sending daggers through my retinas.I fumble in my pocket for aspirin, dry-swallowing two tablets without taking my eyes off the road.

They don’t help.

By the time I reach the diner three blocks from my apartment, the pain has become a pulsing entity, something alive inside my head. I park and rest my forehead against the steering wheel, waiting for the aspirin to kick in.

Just need to eat something. Low blood sugar, that’s all.

I manage to make it inside, claiming a booth in the back. The waitress—Doris, who’s seen me at my best and worst—takes one look at me and brings water without being asked.

“You look like death warmed over, Vic,” she says, sliding the glass toward me.

“Feel it too.” I squint up at her. “The usual, please.”

She nods and disappears, leaving me to massage my temples. The diner’s sounds—clinking silverware, murmured conversations, the sizzle of the grill—seem amplified, painfully loud. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, sending shooting pains through my skull with each pulse.

Something’s not right with me. Is this what a migraine is? It’s like my senses are overloaded.

The thought forms through the fog of pain just as Doris returns with my coffee. I try to thank her, but my tongue feels wrong in my mouth, clumsy and thick. The cup trembles in my hand as I bring it to my lips.

Then it happens.

The diner tilts sideways, colors blurring together like wet paint. A high-pitched whine fills my ears, drowning out all other sounds. I grip the edge of the table, knuckles white with effort, but I can’t seem to anchor myself.

“Vic?” Doris’s voice comes from far away. “You alright, hon?”

I try to answer, but my mouth won’t form the words. The last thing I see before darkness swallows me is Doris’s concerned face, her mouth moving in words I can no longer hear.

Then nothing.

I waketo the sound of rain.

For a moment, I lie still, eyes closed, trying to orient myself through sound alone. Rain pattering against windows. The distant rush of traffic. A dog barking somewhere nearby.