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I reach the end of the alley, emerging onto a well-lit street, and abruptly turn, knife now palmed in my hand.

Nothing. No one follows me out of the darkness.

I stand there on full alert, scanning the shadows. The alley remains empty, but the sensation of being observed doesn’t fade.

“Show yourself,” I call, voice steady despite the unease coursing through me. “Mr. Callahan?”

Silence answers.

A flash of movement catches my eye—high up on a fire escape across the street. For a moment, I think I see a figure silhouetted against the night sky.

Then nothing.

I back away, keeping my eyes on the spot, then turn and continue toward my apartment at a brisk pace. The feeling of being followed stays with me all the way home.

At my building, I climb the stairs to the third floor, unlocking my door with slightly trembling hands. Once inside, I throw the deadbolt and lean against the door, exhaling slowly.

My apartment is exactly as I left it—neat, modestly furnished, with art prints on the walls and books on the shelves. Nothing seems disturbed. No one has been here.

I move to the window, peering through a gap in the curtains to the street below. For a moment, I see nothing unusual. Then, across the street, I catch a glimpse of a figure in the shadows again—tall, still, watching my building.

I strain to make out details, but the streetlight only illuminates a silhouette.

Is it Callahan? Has he followed me home?

Or is it someone else entirely?

The figure steps back, disappearing into deeper shadows until I can no longer distinguish human form from darkness. But even after the shape disappears, I feel those eyes on me, watching, waiting.

I let the curtain fall back into place and move to my bedroom. I place Callahan’s card on my nightstand, his name facing up. Victor Callahan. Private detective. The man who seemed immune to my influence. A man that has me intrigued in ways I can’t explain.

As I undress, I can’t shake the feeling that something has been set in motion tonight—something I won’t be able to stop until it catches up with me. My mind keeps returning to thatmoment when our arms brushed, the jolt of recognition that passed between us.

What was that? And why does the memory of it make my skin warm, my throat dry with something like thirst?

I slip into bed, though sleep will be impossible tonight. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, thinking of Elizabeth, the people she was tangled with. I’m thinking of piercing blue eyes watching me from the audience, unblinking and intense.

And all the while, I sense someone outside, looking up at my window.

6

CALLAHAN

The morning fog clings to Los Angeles like a jilted lover, reluctant to release the city to the waiting sun. I park my Oldsmobile across from the Alto Nido apartments on North Ivar Avenue, a six-story Spanish Colonial on a hill that many aspiring actors, musicians and writers—dreamers—frequent. According to my notes, this is where Lena Reid has lived for the past two years. My notes also tell me I might have dropped by during my blackout, but being here now, no memories come up.

I check my watch. 8:17 a.m. Early for a nightclub singer, probably too early for a social call, but this isn’t social.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

I’ve spent the past forty-eight hours gathering information on Elizabeth Short—interviewing her landlady, speaking with the photographers who took her publicity stills, combing through police reports that Coleman shouldn’t have shared. More than a few roads lead back to Lena Reid. Elizabeth’s closest friend. The one person who might know what Elizabeth was mixed up in before she died.

The one person I can’t seem to get out of my head since our meeting at The Emerald Room.

I light a cigarette and settle in to wait. The notebook Coleman gave me sits open on the passenger seat, filled with my cramped handwriting. Facts. Dates. Questions. The methodical approach that usually brings order to chaos. But something about this case resists organization, like trying to hold mercury in your bare hands.

A woman exits the building, red hair tucked beneath a green scarf, dark heart-shaped sunglasses obscuring her face despite the overcast morning. Even with these concessions to anonymity, I recognize Lena immediately. There’s something about the way she moves—deliberate yet fluid, like she’s perpetually aware of being watched.

I drop my cigarette out the window, crushing it under my shoe as I exit the car and cross the street. She’s halfway down the block before I catch up.