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I make a note. “How often did you and your sister communicate?”

Virginia’s fingers twist in her lap. “Not enough. Monthly letters, mostly. Sometimes postcards. We weren’t raised together—different fathers. But we found each other a few years ago.” Her voice falters. “I should have done more.”

“Guilt doesn’t solve cases, Miss West,” I remind her. “What else can you tell me about her time in Los Angeles?”

“She was always chasing dreams. Acting mostly, but she’d try anything. She wanted to be somebody. Who doesn’t?” Virginia’seyes grow distant. “In her last letter, she mentioned a new opportunity. Someone with connections who could help her career.”

“Did she say who?”

She shakes her head. “Just that it might be her big break. That’s Betty—always hopeful.”

I don’t mention that hope is what gets you killed in this city. Instead, I gather the materials into a neat pile.

“I’ll need to keep these for now,” I tell her. “My rate is twenty-five a day, plus expenses. I require a three-day advance.”

Virginia straightens. “I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes, Mr. Callahan.”

As she writes the check, I study her face. The determined sister, the practical one, now left behind to make sense of a senseless crime.

After she’s gone, I sit in the gathering darkness, spreading the photos across my desk. Elizabeth Short smiles up at me, unaware of her gruesome fate. In the corner of one photo, her friend—Lena Reid—looks directly at the camera, her dark eyes seeming to hold a challenge.

Find me, they seem to say.If you dare.

3

LENA

Ididn’t sleep much last night, not that I’m surprised. It’s been four days since I learned Betty had been murdered and she’s been on my mind ever since. In every spare moment I’m going over her diary, trying to learn as much as possible, while trying to keep a semblance of my normal life.

I stretch languidly and rise from bed, padding barefoot to the kitchen. The wood floor is cool beneath my feet, a sensation I register without being truly bothered by it. Temperature affects me differently now—I feel it, but it doesn’t trouble me the way it once did, before the change.

I open the refrigerator, surveying the contents with a critical eye. Most of the contents are for show, in case Marco snoops around, though I do like to eat my fair share of cottage cheese. It doesn’t do much to sustain me, but I like the taste of it with canned pineapple and it will do in a pinch. We all have our quirks.

I take out ham, cheese, lettuce, and a jar of mustard. Anne will be hungry tonight. She always is, though she’d never admit it.

As I slice bread from the loaf I keep solely for her, I think about how many small deceptions fill my days. The food I eat but mostly don’t enjoy. The warmth I feign when someone touches my cool skin. The careful way I moderate my strength, never letting on that I could lift a car if needed.

The way I hide my true, monstrous self.

The sandwich comes together quickly and I wrap it carefully in wax paper, then decide to prepare two more to go with it. This way she still gets to eat after she feeds her kids. A small kindness in a world that hasn’t shown Anne much kindness based on the color of her skin.

I set them aside and make coffee. The rich aroma fills my apartment, another small pleasure I still enjoy, even if food no longer satisfies the way it once did. I pour a cup and carry it to the table, then go to my bedroom and pull her diary out from under the floorboards.

I sit back down with my coffee and flip past the sections I’ve already memorized, the entries about her courier jobs for Cohen, her growing fear of the Europeans. Instead, I turn to the earlier pages, to when we first met.

Nov. 3, 1945 – That terrible audition at Paramount. Thought I’d cry right there in front of Mr. Weinberg. But that redhead was worse haha! Lena something. We got coffee after and laughed until my sides hurt. She just started signing at Slapsy Maxies on Wednesday nights, offered to put in a word for me. Said the pay is good but the company’s questionable. Mob types. Seems to know her way around, though. Wonder what her story is.

I smile, remembering that day. Betty in a black dress that didn’t quite fit, me in a borrowed wool suit, both of us striking out spectacularly. We’d bonded over our mutual failure—indeed it was that audition that made me realize I’d never cut it as anactress—and from that sprung a friendship I now treasure more than ever.

Damn it.

Why didn’t I ever tell her that? Tell her how much she meant to me?

Now it’s too late.

Nov. 15, 1945 – Saw Lena’s show tonight. My god, that voice! Like honey over gravel. Makes you want to spill all your secrets. The men watching her seemed hypnotized. Don’t blame them, I was too! There’s something about her that’s magnetic. But also distant, like she’s not fully present. Introduced me to her boyfriend, Marco. Don’t like him. The way he looks at her, like she’s a possession, like he doesn’t respect her at all. She deserves better.

I grimace at the mention of Marco. Betty had seen through him immediately.