“But she made it sound like she was home when Jane came over.”

  “She was,” Vivienne said. “I got her home a little before dawn. So, there you have it, Mr. Dane. Everyone has an alibi, and you can rest easy knowing you did your best on an impossible task.”

  Before she could disconnect, I blurted, “What happened with Jane?”

  She was still there, still listening.

  “Why did you leave? Why didn’t you—I mean, you loved each other, didn’t you?”

  Her silence lasted so long that I began to think she wouldn’t answer. But when she spoke, her voice was strangely gentle. “Allow me to tell you something you’d have learned on your own over time, Dash: love is never enough.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Screams of excited laughter drifted down to me. Happy people living their happy lives. Birds cut the sky, nothing more than dark wings scissoring across the sunset. The waves kept coming.

  “It means I was afraid.” Vivienne’s words were tight, the sound of someone trying their hardest to buckle down a sovereign emotion. “She wanted more. And I wanted to be famous.”

  Chapter 14

  I couldn’t go back to the sandcastle competition after that. Part of it was the disappointment of having been—well, fired wasn’t the right word, since Vivienne hadn’t been paying me. Dismissed, I guess. Pulled off the case. In an episode of Law & Order, Fox would have told me, I’d have been put on desk work, maybe even asked to turn in my badge and gun. It wasn’t hard to tell why she’d done it; even now, Vivienne didn’t want her secret getting out. It didn’t matter that the world had changed. It didn’t matter that, in a weird way, it might have actually helped her—she probably could have sold a lesbian book club version of the Matron of Murder series and made a mint.

  The other part of what I felt was the heartbreak I’d heard in Vivienne’s voice at the end. I didn’t like Vivienne. In fact, I was downright scared of Vivienne. She was a murderer, and she was selfish, and she’d chosen to protect her own reputation over finding her brother’s killer. But it was hard not to have a glimmer of sympathy for the everyday tragedy of her story—having to hide who she was, in a high school romance and then in an unhappy marriage and then in an affair with her brother’s wife, and then, finally, in a life of solitude, wearing a mask she’d created for herself. The rational part of me knew that I shouldn’t feel sorry for Vivienne; she wouldn’t want me to feel sorry for her. She’d made her choices, and she’d chosen to gamble on herself, on her chance of becoming famous. She’d succeeded beyond her wildest dreams—and, of course, it had all come crashing down in the end.

  But I also couldn’t forget the girl I’d seen in the photograph Jane had shown me: young, innocent, happy. In love with her best friend. It wasn’t even an uncommon story; maybe that’s why it hit me so hard. When you were gay, same-sex friendships inevitably blurred the boundaries of attraction and desire—and even more so when you were an adolescent and first starting to understand that you might like boys, for example, in a way that not all boys did. I’d had it happen with Ben Michaelson, who, it turned out, did not appreciate having a Valentine delivered to his locker in seventh grade. It was why almost every gay kid has had the experience of being in love with a straight friend. Don’t believe me? Do a quick search on Instagram.

  Worst, though, were her words at the end: Love is never enough.

  Those words followed me back to Hemlock House. It was dark and empty, full of long shadows and golden, glinting dusk. I put myself in the den and told myself to get to work. The Next Night wasn’t going to finish itself. Hugo understood—and had a degree of patience for—my, um, idiosyncrasies, but the reality was that sooner or later, he was going to put his foot down. So, I pulled up the manuscript, scrolled to the scene I was supposed to be writing, and…stared at the page.

  I’d left Hugo because I hadn’t loved him—and, almost as important, because I’d been fairly sure he hadn’t loved me. And I’d left because what I’d had with Hugo hadn’t been enough. I’d wanted more. I’d wanted love. I wanted to love someone the way I thought it was supposed to feel—and that was part of the problem. I didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like. I didn’t know if love was even real. For all I knew, what I’d had with Hugo was as good as it got—someone to come home to, someone who cared about you, someone you had fun with. If there wasn’t more—

  I closed my eyes. I concentrated on my breathing. I counted slowly to ten, and then backward, until my heart slowed and the live wire of my anxiety was buried again. And then, keeping those thoughts at bay, I turned my attention to The Next Night and made myself start typing.

  This scene was supposed to be one of the most important in the book. Dexter Drake, our intrepid investigator, was hiding in the bushes of Pershing Square, watching as his lover, Dan Garrett, was led away by police. Pershing Square was an infamous cruising spot for gay men in Los Angeles, and in the 1940s, when our book was set, it anchored The Run, a corridor of businesses that were gay friendly. Unfortunately, the popularity of the area also made it a frequent target of police officers—and civilians—who wanted to catch men in the act, so to speak. Now, as Dexter watched the police lead his lover away, he had a choice to make: try to save Dan, or make his escape—and let it happen again.

  That again was the crucial part. Because The Next Night was a story about cycles, about bad things coming back around. Dexter’s bad decisions with his lovers, of course (that was a noir staple). His bad life choices in general, actually—too much whiskey, too many gin joints, too much loneliness and grief that built and built until the pressure forced him to do something rash. (Another noir staple.) And, of course, the murders. A serial killer was operating along The Run, and the police were ignoring the murders of gay men and other marginalized people, which left only Dexter to try to stop him. But because this was noir, Dexter kept trying to fix things the way he always had. And so, nothing he tried ever worked. Which meant the next night, and the next, and the next, were always the same.

  I hated it.

  I stopped, hands above the keyboard. I’d never put it into words like that, but I hated the premise. I mean, it was good—Hugo’s ideas were always good. It captured how the best noir mixed cynicism and despair with a refusal to surrender virtue, to continue to try to do good. Even though I knew I was too close to the project to be objective, I had enough awareness to know that it was sharp, incisive, powerful. Maybe even brilliant, because Hugo, according to all his starred reviews, was brilliant.

  But as I sat there, staring at the keyboard, my stomach turned. I didn’t want Dexter Drake to let the police drag Dan away. I didn’t want Dexter to keep making the same bad choices, to go on living the same claustrophobic, hopeless life. Yes, it was historically accurate. Yes, it was true to the genre. Yes, it was a powerful and compelling tragedy, and it showed a sliver of what it might have meant to be gay in 1940s LA.

  But what I wanted to do was send Will Gower in with his .38. He’d fire off a few warning shots, and the police would run for cover, and in the chaos, Will would get Dexter and Dan (God, I even hated that they both had names that started with D) to a private airfield, and they’d fly to Mexico. And Will Gower would find the serial killer, and Dexter and Dan would open a little hotel on the beach, and The End.

  The story, which had seemed electric when Hugo and I had been brainstorming, felt dead now—limp, cumbersome, cold.

  Why?

  I tried to be rational about it. What had changed? I mean, it hadn’t only been Hugo’s idea. I’d been part of it too. I’d even been excited about it. But now, when I thought about writing that scene—about having Dexter watch his life fall apart again because he kept trying to solve his problems the same way, because he didn’t know how to break the cycle—cold sweat dampened my tee, and little black spots whirled in my vision.

  No answer came to me. Nothing I could put into words, anyway. Just my anxiety building in my chest until I finally set the laptop aside, pulled my favorite blanket over me, and lay back to concentrate on my breathing.

  It’s called meditation, for your information.

  I knew it was a dream even while it was happening; lucid dreaming, I believe it’s called. I was in the dark, in the brush and brambles of Pershing Square. But I wasn’t Dexter Drake. Or maybe I was, but I was also Vivienne Carver, and I was watching the police drag Jane away. Police lights flashed and spun. I wanted to shout. I wanted to move. But that particular paralysis of dreams held me, kept my throat shut, and I knew they were taking her away, and I’d never get her back. She was getting smaller and smaller, farther and farther away from me. And then a gunshot—

  I jerked awake. I was hot under the blanket, and dizzy, but my sweat was the clammy sweat of a nightmare. Kicking the blanket off me, I sat up, gulping in air. The house was dark, and the only light in the den came from the lamp next to me. How long had I been aslee—uh, meditating?

  My phone said it was almost eight, which seemed impossible. The dream had been so short.

  The sounds of movement came from upstairs, and I froze. My brain began to piece together items from my lucid dreaming: the police lights flashing might have been headlights sweeping across the den’s window, and the gunshot must have been a door closing. For another moment, I listened to the footsteps overhead. Then I got to my feet and went to investigate.

  I didn’t bother turning on any lights. In my stockinged feet, my steps made less than a whisper on the thick rugs. When I reached the second-floor landing, I could see the light under Bobby’s door. What were the odds the killer had come after me, determined to finish the job, and walked right past me in the den in order to rummage around in Bobby’s room?

  Pretty low, I decided.

  Bracing myself for another encounter with Kiefer, I rapped on the door. Be nice, I told myself. Smile. He’s Bobby’s friend, so you’re going to figure out how to make things work, even if he wants to talk about—what did young people want to talk about? Music, I decided. Even if he wants to talk about, um, Hannah Montana. Wait, would Kiefer even know who Hannah Montana was? Maybe I should go back to my room, do some research on my phone, find out what the cool kids are talking about these days. Heck, I could even wait for Keme to get back—

  “Yeah?” Bobby called, and the sounds of movement continued.

  For about five seconds, I thought about running away. No plans. No luggage. Just me, possibly a bindle—

  The door swung open, and Bobby stood there. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light, but I knew his silhouette, knew what it felt like to be near him, knew how he took up space, the sounds he made that were just his body existing in the universe. Then I could see him. He was still dressed in his cute little number from earlier today: the white tank, the black shorts. He’d changed into sneakers—not any of the expensive ones he collected, but workhorse New Balances that he used when he needed a pair he didn’t mind getting dirty. (Well, not too dirty. I mean, he still cleaned off all the scuffs.) The outfit left a lot of Bobby to look at. A lot of golden skin. A lot of muscles. And the way he was standing, arms folded, did, um, things, to his arms. And his chest. And his shoulders. And did you know a neck can be, like, veiny and weirdly strong and suddenly you think you might have a thing for necks? I heard the direction my thoughts were taking and decided the only safe spot to look at was his ear. (I mean, my God, have you seen his eyes?)

  “I thought you were asleep,” Bobby said. And then, “I woke you up.”

  “It’s okay. I was having a bad dream. Also, as soon as I said that, I realized it made me sound like I was five years old, and I want to retract it. Wait, let me start over. I heard an intruder, and I came up here to beat him up.”

  He didn’t exactly smile, but he did cock his head. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh great. I mean, kind of facing crippling uncertainty about this stupid story with Hugo, and doubting all my artistic instincts and, you know, my life choices in general, and operating at about a 9.7 on the Barkhausen scale.”

  Bobby said, “What?”

  “It’s a scale I made up to measure my anxiety by how much I want to scream into my pillow. This little interaction just bumped me up to a 9.9, in case you’re wondering.” Since that didn’t leave Bobby much room in the way of a response, I decided to just jump into the rest of it. “I, uh, wanted to check on you. I mean, not right now. Because I thought you were an intruder.”

  “And you were going to fight me.”

  “Beat you up,” I corrected. “But, you know, in general I wanted to check on you.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “About the other day,” I said.

  He still didn’t say anything.

  “When, you, um—” Had a panic attack felt like too much, so I finished. “—you know, when the Jeep rolled.”

  “When you were forced off the road and almost killed,” Bobby said.

  “That.”

  “I’m fine.” It seemed to cost him something to add, “Thank you for asking.”

  “Oh good. Great. That’s—that’s awesome sauce.”

  Bobby wasn’t the eye-rolling type. But I could sense some emotions trying to make their way to the surface.

  “So, like, what did the doctor say?”

  More slowly, Bobby said, “I’m fine, Dash. I appreciate the concern. It was a one-time thing.”

  “Is that what the doctor said?”

  “I’ve got it under control.” He put his hand on the door, the nonverbal equivalent of: I’m going to shut this now, so go away. “I need to get back to work.”

  A year ago, I probably would have slunk away. Maybe even six months ago, because everything with Bobby had felt so precarious after Christmas. But a lot had changed in the last year. A lot had changed since Christmas. A lot, it turned out, had changed in the last month. And all of a sudden, I was angry.

  “Great,” I said, pushing past him into his room. “Let me help.”

  Aside from the cardboard boxes, most of which were taped and ready to go, the room looked like it always did—which was to say, like Bobby didn’t live there. He was so neat. So organized. So considerate. Everything was always put away and in its place. Even with boxes all over the place, it felt more like a hotel room than somewhere someone actually lived. I had a vision of this room after all those boxes were gone, and it would be like every other room in Hemlock House. Frozen in time. A museum. Empty.

  “So, did the doctor give you some exercises?” I asked. “Did you get a Xanax prescription in case it happens again? What did they say about seeing a therapist?”

  Bobby turned to follow me as I moved around the room. He folded his arms again. He set his jaw. “What is this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m being your friend. I’m checking in.”

  “Really? Because it feels like you’re trying to pick a fight.”

  “What would I be trying to pick a fight about?”

  Bobby took a long breath through his nose. In tones so measured that they were like a klaxon for an imminent explosion, he said, “I didn’t see a doctor.”

  “Oh! See, that was confusing because you kept answering my questions like you had. Kind of, you know, like you were lying to me.”

  “I wasn’t lying to you. I was telling you the truth. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I have it under control.” He seemed to think I needed further clarification, so he added, “I don’t need to see a doctor.”

  I said something that would have gotten me kicked out of the sandcastle competition tout de suite.

  Bobby said, “I need to finish packing.”

  “You’ve got it under control?” I said.

  He stared at me a moment longer. Then he crossed the room, opened a dresser drawer, and took out a stack of clothes. Normally, Bobby moved with an unthinking grace; he was a natural athlete, and he was a surfer, and he moved like someone confident in his own body. Now, his movements were choppy. His back was stiff. He looked like his head might snap off his neck if he turned too quickly.

  “Let’s see,” I said. “Like you had everything under control after you broke up with West.”

  He took out another stack of clothes.

  “Remember that? When you were working every shift the sheriff would give you? And when you weren’t working, you were going to the gym? And when you weren’t at the gym, you were surfing—” My voice threatened to crack, so instead, I turned the volume up—anger instead of, you know, real feelings. (That’s a life hack.) “—and almost getting yourself killed because it was stupid to be out there by yourself, stupid to be out there in that weather, stupid to be taking risks like that when you know better.” Somehow, I managed to bring my voice down, although it stayed quavery. “Under control like that?”

  A flush climbed Bobby’s neck, rising into his cheeks. He looked away.

  “You’re not going to say anything?” I asked.

  “What do you want me to say?”