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I hesitate. Betty hadn’t just been anxious—she’d been terrified. Pacing my living room, peering through the curtains every few minutes, jumping at the slightest sound.

“They’re watching me, Lena,”she’d said.“I see them everywhere. That black Cadillac? It’s been outside my building for three nights.”

And that wasn’t all. She’d told me more, things I instinctively know I shouldn’t share with these men, men who are on Cohen’s payroll.

“Mickey’s got me working for these new people, these weird Europeans, and I don’t trust them. They keep promising me the moon and yet…the things I’ve seen…”She’d shaken her head, unable to finish the thought.

“She was worried about money,” I say carefully. Half-truths are always more convincing. “Said she needed to get out of town. Start fresh.”

“Did she say where she was going?” the notebook cop asks.

“San Francisco.” That part, at least, was true. “She was planning to leave after…after one last job.”

“One last job?” The shorter cop leans forward, brows raised. “What kind of job?”

I take another swig of vodka to buy time. I can’t tell them she was doing deliveries and favors for Cohen, to these Europeans who frightened her so badly. Can’t tell them how her eyes had filled with tears when she told me about her “one last courier job” at the Biltmore Hotel on the ninth.

“After this, I’m done,”she’d promised.“I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“I don’t know exactly,” I lie. “Just something that would give her enough money to get away…”

As I speak, I think of Betty’s diary. She’d been carrying the small leather-bound book in her purse that night. I hadn’t thought much of it until I found it tucked between my sofa cushions two days later. I’d tried calling her boardinghouse, but no one knew where she was.

And now I know why.

She was dead.

And whatever’s in that diary might explain why. Did she forget it there by accident? Or was it a message to me? Of course, the moment I found it I put it on my shelf. I didn’t look at it. What kind of friend would I be to look at someone’s private diary?

“Was she seeing anyone? Anyone who might have been, I don’t know, possessive? Jealous?” The red-nosed cop’s eyes narrow, as if Betty and I have a type.

“Betty dated a lot of men, but nothing serious.” I shake my head. “Look, she was just a girl trying to make it in Hollywood. Like thousands of others.”

“Some girls try harder than others,” the cop mutters, and I feel a surge of anger cut through my grief. “Is there anything else you remember about that night? Anything she might have mentioned?”

The urge to tell him about the diary is strong but I rein it in. It’s true that half the cops in this town are on Cohen’s payroll, but the other half aren’t. What if there’s some incriminating evidence about me in those pages? I’m selfish enough to worry about that. Not to mention I don’t know what Betty would say about herself, potentially damaging her reputation after death. I need to read it over first, at the very least.

“No,” I say firmly. “She was scared, but she didn’t say of what. Or who.”

“And that wasn’t enough for you to worry?”

I shrug through a sharp pang of guilt. “Mister, most of us in this town are scared, one way or another.”

The cops exchange glances, clearly dissatisfied with my answers. But what else can I say without putting myself in danger?

Without exposing what I really am?

“We’ll be in touch, Ms. Reid. Don’t leave town.” The red-nosed cop hands me his card. “Call if you remember anything else.”

After they leave, Joey hovers uncertainly. “You okay, Lena? You don’t have to go back on if you don’t want to.”

I take another long swig of vodka, letting it burn away some of the shock. Elizabeth is dead. Murdered. And I’ve just lied to the police about what I know. As if I wasn’t feeling guilty already. After all, I was the one that introduced Betty to this racket.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, rising to my feet and smoothing down my dress. “The show must go on, right?”

But as I check my reflection, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Her eyes hold a new darkness. Tonight, for the first time, the blood-red of my attire feels like an omen rather than a statement.

As I reapply my lipstick with trembling hands, I silently promise Betty that I’ll find out what happened to her. I need to get home, need to read that diary, see what Betty knew.