Page 6 of Nocturne

5

LENA

I let the heat of the spotlight wash over me as I linger on the final note, drawing it out until my lungs ache for release. The band follows my lead, the saxophone player watching my eyes for the signal. I give a slight nod and we finish in perfect sync, the note hanging in the air for a heartbeat before dissolving into applause.

Five days since the cops told me about Betty. Since I read her diary. Since I got the feeling I’m being stalked. Five days of smiling through performances while something cold and heavy sits in my chest. Grief and fear, all mixed up into one messy package.

I scan the crowd as I always do, cataloging the faces looking back at me. The regulars—Diamond Joe with his platinum blonde on his arm. The table of businessmen pretending they’re not slumming it. Cohen’s boys at the corner table, keeping watch. Marco himself is absent tonight—business in Burbank, he said. I don’t miss his unfeeling gaze.

Then I see him.

Back of the room, sitting alone. He doesn’t look like the usual clientele. His suit is well-tailored but understated. No flashy tie pin or gaudy ring. He holds a drink, half gone. But it’s his eyes that catch me—intense, focused, watching me with an almost predatory stillness.

I’ve been watched by countless men for most of my twenty-five years. I know every shade of male attention—desire, obsession, ownership, appreciation. This is something else entirely. Something that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

And maybe something else.

I shift my gaze away, launching into my next number. A sultry, slow piece that lets me move across the stage, tracing the microphone stand with gloved fingers. When I glance back at the stranger, he hasn’t moved, hasn’t even blinked. Just watches with those penetrating eyes.

Something about him pulls at me. A strange magnetic sensation, almost like recognition, though I’m certain we’ve never met. I would remember a face like that—strong jawline, bright blue eyes under heavy black brows, a mouth that looks like it rarely smiles. Handsome in a movie star way with undercurrent of something dangerous.

Otherworldly, some might say.

But no…that can’t be.

He’s not one of us .

By my final song, the stranger has me rattled. I find myself performing for him, trying to elicit some reaction beyond that steady, assessing gaze. I pour everything into the closing number, hitting notes that make the room go silent before erupting in applause.

He doesn’t applaud.

Just watches, as if totally unaffected.

As petty as it sounds, it rankles me.

But as I exit the stage, roses at my feet, I feel his eyes follow me into the darkness of the wings.

“Someone’s got an admirer,” Joey says, handing me a towel.

I dab at my forehead, careful not to smudge my makeup. “Which one?”

“That guy in the back. Black hair, strong jaw. Looks like Gregory Peck if he took on Robert Mitchum’s roles. Been watching you like you might disappear if he blinks.”

“One of Cohen’s new guys?” I ask, though for some reason I don’t want the stranger to be associated with him.

Joey shrugs. “Never seen him before. I can have him removed if you’d like, though I’m not sure where he went.”

“I can handle admirers,” I tell him with a smile.

I make my way to my dressing room, heels clicking against the worn floor. The halls are quiet tonight—a Tuesday, not our busiest. My thoughts drift back to the stranger as I turn the handle to my dressing room and step inside.

He’s sitting in my chair.

I freeze in the doorway, fight-or-flight instinct surging through me. It has me wanting to fight, to attack, but I push it back, maintaining my human facade.

He rises slowly, deliberately, like someone approaching a skittish animal.

“Ms. Reid.” His voice is a low baritone, rough at the edges, the kind of voice that makes one want to melt. “Victor Callahan. I apologize for the intrusion.”

I step inside, leaving the door open. A calculated move—any scream would bring Joey running, though I doubt I’d need the help. I’ve dispatched men twice his size when necessary, but that’s not the side of myself I care to reveal here.

“Most men buy me a drink before breaking into my dressing room,” I say, keeping my voice light as I assess him. Up close, I can see the stubble along his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Or perhaps he always looks like that. Still deadly handsome, though.

“I’m not most men,” he says without a smile.

No kidding.

“And I didn’t break in. Your door was unlocked.”

“So who are you then?” I ask, moving to my vanity and beginning to remove my earrings. Act casual, unaffected.

“I told you. Victor Callahan. I’m a private investigator.”

I can’t help but bristle. Of course.

“Well, I’ve already told the cops everything I know about Elizabeth,” I tell him.

“Have you?” Something in his tone makes me look up, catch his eyes in the mirror. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, I swear I see something flash in those dark depths. Something familiar.

I turn to face him, leaning against the vanity. “Mr. Callahan, I’m tired, I’m thirsty, and I’ve just learned my closest friend was murdered. So unless you have something useful to offer, I’d appreciate some privacy.”

“Please. Call me Callahan.”

“Callahan, then.”

He doesn’t move, just studies me with that unnerving intensity. “You were the last person to talk to her, aside from her killer.”

My heart stutters. “The police didn’t mention that.”

“Yeah. They’re good at that.” He steps closer, into my space. Most people can’t hold my gaze for long—there’s something about my eyes that makes them uneasy, a predatory quality I can’t entirely disguise. Yet Callahan doesn’t waver. “But I know Elizabeth came to your apartment the night before she disappeared. What did you talk about?”

I should lie. Should feed him the same story I gave the cops. But something makes me hesitate.

I reach for the glass of water on my vanity, buying time. As I do, I let a thread of my influence slip into my words. Not much—just enough to make most humans pliable, suggestive.

“Elizabeth and I talked about the usual things,” I say, voice honeyed, eyes locked on his. “Her auditions. Her dreams of Hollywood. Nothing unusual.” I tilt my head slightly. “Maybe you should focus on her other friends. She had many. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one she confided in.”

The suggestion would work on most. Would make them nod and move on to easier questioning, maybe even leave.

But Callahan just narrows his eyes slightly.

“Nice try, Ms. Reid.” His mouth quirks, almost a smile. “But I think we both know there was more to that conversation.”

A chill runs through me. My influence bounced right off him. That never happens with most humans.

“You’re very direct,” I say, switching tactics. I move closer, watching his reaction. Most men either back away from assertive women or get aggressive. He does neither.

“In my experience, directness saves time.” His eyes drop to my lips for a fraction of a second, then back to my eyes. “And time is something Elizabeth Short ran out of.”

“Poetic.” I reach for my cigarette case, partly to have something to do with my hands. “You’re right, of course. We did talk about something else.” I light the cigarette, exhaling slowly. “She was scared.”

His posture shifts subtly. “Of what?”

“It’s hard to say.” That much is true. She had said so much. “She thought someone was following her. Watching her. I thought she was paranoid.”

“And now you regret that.”

It’s not a question. I look away, taking another drag. “Wouldn’t you? Perhaps if I took her more seriously, she wouldn’t be dead and I wouldn’t be in this jam.”

“Do you consider this to be a jam, Ms. Reid?”

“Please, you can call me Lena.”

He pulls out a small notebook. “Did she mention any names? Any places she was going?”

“No.” The lie feels heavier than it did the other day. “She was always chasing one opportunity or another. That’s how it is for girls like us in this town. You take chances. You take what you can get.”

Of course, he wouldn’t understand that. Men have no idea what it’s like.

“Some chances are more dangerous than others.” He flips through his notebook. “The police report says you’ve been in Los Angeles for three years. Moved here from Salem, Oregon, at age twenty-two. Your parents still live there.”

“You’ve done your homework,” I say as smoothly as possible, though his knowledge rankles me. What else does he know? Does he know what my parents are? What I am? What if he starts poking deeper and finds holes in our stories?

“It’s my job.” He looks up. “How did you and Elizabeth meet?”

“At an audition. We were both terrible. I mean absolutely awful.” I can’t help but smile at the memory, made even more fresh by her diary entry. “We went for coffee afterward and laughed about it. Been friends ever since.”

“Just friends?”

My eyes snap to his. There’s no judgment in his expression, just careful observation. Still, the question makes me tense. It’s a dangerous one, considering where I was last night. Did he know? Was he the one following me?

I swallow. “Mr. Callahan, I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

“Just Callahan. And I’m not implying anything. I’m trying to understand the nature of your relationship.”

I take a final drag of my cigarette before crushing it in the ashtray. “Betty was like a sister to me. I loved her. I would have protected her if I’d known she was in real danger.” My voice catches, genuine emotion bleeding through. “I should have protected her.”

Something in his expression softens marginally and in that I think he might be younger than I thought. Maybe early thirties. “That’s not your job, Ms. Reid.”

“No, it’s yours, isn’t it?” I counter. “Her family hired you to find whoever did this to her.”

He nods once. “And I will.”

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’re the 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 air is 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.

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 that moment 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.