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10

CALLAHAN

Sunrise bleeds across the horizon as we pull into the parking lot of The Blue Moon Diner, one of the few places in this part of town where the coffee doesn’t taste like it was filtered through an ashtray. At this hour, it’s mostly populated by workers coming off the night shift—factory men with grease-stained hands, nurses with weary eyes, cab drivers counting their tips.

I steal a glance at Lena sitting beside me. Even after spending the night on my office couch, she somehow manages to look composed. Her red hair is slightly mussed, falling in loose waves around her face, making her look younger, more vulnerable than the sultry singer I first saw on stage. The morning light catches on her profile, illuminating her pale skin, the elegant curve of her throat.

Last night still feels like a fever dream. Lena calling me in terror. The strange tale of her intruder. Marco Russo showing up at dawn, threatening us both. And somewhere between it all, me spilling my guts about Catherine, about the war, about things I haven’t told another living soul in years.

“You’re staring,” Lena says without looking at me, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“Professional habit.” I exit the car and circle around to open her door. “Observing people.”

“Is that what you call it?” She steps out, her movements fluid despite her obvious fatigue.

Inside, we claim a booth by the window. The waitress—a middle-aged woman with blonde hair and world-weary eyes—brings coffee without being asked. A regular’s privilege.

“What’ll it be this morning?” she asks, pencil poised over her pad.

“The usual for me, Molly. And whatever the lady wants.” I look around. “Say, isn’t this Doris’ shift?”

She shakes her head. “Haven’t seen Doris for days. She never showed up for her shift.”

An uneasy feeling churns in my stomach. “She alright?”

Molly shrugs, seeming too weary to care. “One can hope. And what does the lady want?”

Lena places her order but my mind is tripping over Doris. The last time I saw her was when I had one of my blackouts. I was talking to her right here and that’s when the world went black.

I give my head a shake. There’s no way that can be connected. I’m sure Doris is just fine. Probably had enough and quit. Just because I lost time doesn’t mean I spent that time murdering my waitress.

The food comes fast. Lena ordered toast and eggs, though she doesn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about either. I notice she pushes the food around more than she eats it when it arrives.

“Not hungry?” I ask, halfway through my own plate of eggs and hash.

“Not particularly.” She sips her coffee, her magnetic eyes meeting mine over the rim of the cup. “Last night was…intense.”

“That’s one word for it.”

She sets down her coffee, studying me with those dark eyes that seem to see right through me. “You told me a lot about yourself. More than I expected.”

“Believe me, no one’s more surprised than I am.” I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve told about Catherine since the war. Yet something about Lena had pulled the words from me like a confession. Like she was a church I’d stumbled into, seeking refuge.

“Does it bother you?” she asks. “That I know so much about you now?”

“Should it?”

A slight smile curves her lips. “Most men prefer to maintain an air of mystery.”

“I think you’ve got enough mystery for both of us.”

Her expression shifts subtly, a wariness entering her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve been forthcoming about exactly one thing—Elizabeth Short. Everything else about you is carefully curated. You want others to see what you want them to see. The perfect performance. And I’m no exception.” I lean forward slightly. “I know you’re from Salem, Oregon, your parents are still there, you’ve been in LA for three years, singing at The Emerald Room, and other joints about town, for two. But I don’t know a damn thing about who you really are.”

“And who do you think I really am, Callahan?”

There’s a challenge in her voice that makes something stir in my blood. Makes me want to rise and meet that challenge. “Someone who’s survived by keeping secrets. Someone who’s used to being watched, admired, desired—but never really seen.”