He’d found himself caught in a labyrinth of dope thought, one of those Gordian knot moments where he couldn’t quite put his finger on what had brought him to this exact spot. The long chain of events, forged one decision at a time, that had led them from the places they were born to the softness of this Malibu evening. He’d tried to explain it to her, what he was thinking, how improbable it was. How impossible. If his mother hadn’t married that asshole, or if his high school girlfriend hadn’t dumped him, he might have ended up in a suburb of Little Rock. If Laney’s car hadn’t dropped its muffler in West Hollywood, she would never have pulled over at the Midas where he was having his own changed out, giving them half an hour to chat in the waiting room over terrible coffee, his heart thumping as he tried to work up the nerve to ask her out. How, when viewed mathematically, their coming together was a near impossibility, a miracle of chance.

“It’s like tossing a dart,” he’d said. “There’s nothing amazing about it. You throw and it sticks somewhere. But if you try and backtrack every factor that led there, the force of the throw and the angle and the air resistance, all of it had to be perfect, just exactly right, for it to end up where it did.”

She’d rolled her head sideways, smiled, said, “You’re funny when you’re stoned.”

“I’m funny when I’m not stoned too.”

“Meh.” And she’d laughed, and he’d joined her, and that had been perfect too. It was like those French philosophers’ ideas of love and life, the sense that there was nothing real but what you chose. That when most people talked about love they really meant habit, whereas maybe love wasn’t about commitment—it was about choice, about choosing to be with the person you were with, and choosing it every moment.

Then he’d realized he was really, really hungry, and they’d gone inside and stripped the rest of the flesh from the chicken before collapsing into bed.

It was only after he’d been smiling for a long time that he realized he remembered it. Fully and completely. His past was coming back to him. The thought was enormously comforting for about ten seconds, and then he’d thought of Bennett, and wondered if he would have the chance for the rest of it to trickle in.

And since then, he’d been thinking about the future. About the visit to the house, and about tonight. About killing Bennett and getting away with it, so that there would even be a future.

Enough with the past. Enough with the future. The now is what you have. Focus on it.

He looked over at Laney. She was staring out the window and chewing on a cuticle.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what? I got us into this, not you.”

“For . . . everything. For all the things I should be sorry for. All the moments I wasted, and the stupid fights, and working too many hours, the drinking that made you worry. All of it.”

“Don’t be. I’m not sorry for anything that happened between us. Not one minute of it.”

“Sucker.”

“Yep.” She drove with one hand, rubbed at her neck with the other. “Honestly, I just wish this was over. It’s the waiting that’s killing me. Hours to go, maybe our last, and I can’t let myself enjoy them. It’s like that first week shooting Candy Girls.”

He laughed. “You barfed every morning. I thought maybe you were pregnant.”

“I barfed in the afternoons too. You carried gum for me. I was so sure they were going to fire me and bring Evangeline Lilly back in. Remember?”

“You know what? I do. I also remember that you nailed it. Nervous or not, you went out there and killed.”

The word was out of his mouth before he could think about it. Jesus Christ, for a guy good with language, what a boneheaded choice. He spoke fast to cover it up, saying, “Think we can get into Lux now?”

“They’ll probably have some staff prepping for the party.”

“Then let’s go.” He gestured at the glove compartment. “Having those two on us is making me nervous.” Plus, it will distract us from the thought we’re both having:

So long to wait. But if this doesn’t work, such a short time to live.

F

rom this angle, Daniel and Laney looked like pieces on a chessboard. It was an image that pleased Bennett immensely. He’d found Lux no problem. The place was anything but subtle.

A former warehouse, it took up most of a city block. The exterior had been painted gold—not yellow, gold—and there was a huge cursive “L” hanging above the entrance. The front walk was wide enough to allow for a rope line or even a red carpet. At night, it probably looked opulent, but by the hard light of afternoon, the word was garish.

He’d arrived a couple of hours ago. After watching the video, he’d packed his gear and loaded the truck, then he’d spent an hour cleaning Jerry D’Agostino’s house. Used an entire tube of those premoistened disinfecting wipes, swiping down every hard surface, every spot that might have held a fingerprint. He’d run the dishwasher and vacuumed the whole place. There were no absolute certainties when it came to DNA, but he’d done the best he could. And after tonight it was bye-bye La La Land, hello sunny Mexico.

The building he stood atop was in the process of being converted to a club itself, and it had been the easiest thing in the world to walk in like he was inspecting it, passing Hispanics hanging drywall and Polacks wiring electricity, then climb the rear stairs. The roof afforded a panoramic view. To the north, the mirrored towers of financial companies bounced sunlight. To the east, he could make out the concrete canyon of the Los Angeles River basin, dry at this time of year. South was the 10, followed by a wasteland of industrial buildings.

And due west was Lux, gaudy as a showgirl, and in front of it, the PT Cruiser that Daniel had just climbed out of. Bennett squatted behind the lip of the roof, a three-foot abutment of brick. The sun warmed his shoulders and heated the tar of the roof to stickiness. Below him, Daniel turned a slow circle, one hand shielding his eyes. Satisfied they were alone, he gestured, and Laney climbed out of the car. The two of them hurried to the entrance.

Bennett took the parabolic mic from his bag, propped it on the brick, the dish pointed down at the front door. The earpiece crackled as he flipped the thing on, and then scraped with the sounds of their footsteps.

“Locked.” Daniel’s voice thin in his ear. The man banged on the door. Laney seemed ready to crawl out of her pretty skin. Her blond hair was limp and fried. She looked much better brunette, and without that shit around her eye.

After a moment, the door rattled and then opened a few inches. A burly guy with tattoos down both arms looked out at them. “Help you?”

“Hi,” Daniel said, “I’m John Freyer, and this is Belinda Nichols.

We’re with the publicity team for Too G.”

“Uh-huh?”

“The rest of the crew will be here later, but Too wanted us to

come by and take a look, make sure things were set up in the VIP room.”