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The certainty in his voice is compelling. I study him, this man who seems impervious to my usual tactics. There’s something different about him.

“You should know she wasn’t always careful about the company she kept,” I offer, feeling I have to give him something. After all, I do want her killer caught. “There were men—powerful men—who took an interest in her.”

“Any names come to mind?”

I hesitate, then decide to test the waters. “She mentioned some Europeans. Foreign businessmen connected to Mickey Cohen. She never said their names, just that they scared her.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. Recognition?

“Interesting,” is all he says. He pulls out a card from his jacket and places it on my vanity. “If you remember anything else, call me. Any time, day or night.”

I pick up the card, turning it over in my fingers. I decide to test the waters. “And if I want to call for other reasons?”

That almost-smile returns, a bit sardonic this time. “I wouldn’t recommend it, Ms. Reid.”

“No?” I step closer, his scent overwhelming to my senses—sandalwood, tobacco, and something else that sends a strange thrill through me. “Why not?”

He doesn’t back away, and yet doesn’t seem affected by my proximity the way most men would be. “Because I think you’rethe type of woman who’s used to getting what she wants. And right now, what I want are answers about Elizabeth Short.”

“And after you get those answers?”

He studies me for a long moment, a muscle feathering at his jaw. “Goodnight, Ms. Reid.”

He moves past me toward the door, his sleeve brushing mine. At the contact, a jolt of something—electricity, recognition, hunger—passes between us. He pauses briefly, eyes meeting mine in silent acknowledgment of whatever just happened, then continues out the door.

I stand motionless until his footsteps fade down the hallway, trying to understand what just occurred. In all my years, I’ve never met a human who could resist my influence so completely. Never felt such an immediate, visceral connection to someone else who wasn’t like me.

I’m not sure if I should be worried or not.

After all, he might be my stalker.

The night airis cool against my skin as I walk home. I’ve changed into a simple black dress with a brocade coat, low heels, and a scarf covering my distinctive hair. The streets aren’t safe for a woman alone, but I’ve never been particularly concerned. I can handle most threats.

Except you don’t want to, I remind myself.Remember last time you were attacked?

My heart sinks. I don’t want to have to do that again, even if they deserved it.

Even if the body kept me fed for weeks.

My apartment is fifteen blocks from The Emerald Room. I could take a cab, but I prefer walking. The night has always felt more like home than the day, but that goes for all night walkers. Being a vampire means my senses are extra sensitive to things like sound and light and while I can handle the sun, it tends to get annoying and give me a headache after a while. Even the spotlight can do that.

Tonight, though, something feels off. I’m three blocks from the club when I first sense it—a presence, watching.

Following.

I keep my pace steady, resisting the urge to look back. Instead, I watch reflections in store windows as I pass. Nothing unusual. Just empty sidewalks and occasional cars.

Still, the feeling persists.

At the next corner, I pause as if checking my purse, using the moment to scan the street behind me. Empty. Just as it was last night.

I continue walking, turning onto a busier avenue where late-night bars spill neon onto the sidewalk.

The feeling of being watched intensifies.

I cut through an alley I know well—a shortcut that should save me time. Halfway through, I hear it—the soft scuff of a shoe on concrete. I quicken my pace slightly, hand slipping into my purse for the knife.

The footsteps behind me speed up.