Page 85 of Nocturne

“Be careful, Vic,” he says, and I hear the genuine concern beneath the warning. “Whatever’s going on with you…just be careful.”

Outside the station, the California sun feels harsher than it used to, each ray an assault on my skin that seems to be getting more sensitive with each day. I pull down the brim of my fedora, shielding my eyes. According to Abe, I’ll eventually adjust to daylight, learn to manage the annoyance the sun can bring, but for now, it’s just one more reminder of what I’ve become.

I light a cigarette, the familiar motion calming, relieved that it still tastes as good as before, if not better. My thoughts turn to Lena, waiting back at the colony in Malibu. I’d left at dawn while she was still sleeping, needing space to process everything that had happened.

She’d wanted me last night. I could smell her desire, hear the quickening of her pulse when our eyes met. But I’d refused her advances, retreated to the guest room Abe provided. Was I a coward? Maybe. But how could I lose myself in her body when I was still trying to find myself in this new, monstrous skin?

And yet I crave her. Not just physically, but completely. Her guidance, her understanding, the way she looks at me like I’m still worth something despite the blood on my hands.

I should return to her now, tell her what I’ve learned, plan our next move in this investigation that’s become more personal than either of us anticipated.

I’m halfway to my car when I sense it—eyes watching me. I turn slowly, scanning the crowded sidewalk, and that’s when I see her.

She stands apart from the bustling pedestrians, stillness in a sea of motion. Tall, slender, dark hair swept into an elegantchignon that emphasizes the aristocratic angles of her face. She wears a tailored skirt suit in deep burgundy, the color of dried blood, and as our eyes meet across the distance, I feel something tug at the edges of my mind—recognition, but not memory.

She approaches with confident grace, each step deliberate, predatory. As she draws closer, I catch her scent—expensive perfume and something antiseptic. She’s beautiful but there’s something about her that brings about faint revulsion.

“Mr. Callahan,” she says, her voice liquid velvet wrapped around a subtle European accent. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Do I know you?” I ask, though something in me already knows the answer.

“Not really.” Her smile is dazzling, perfect. Too perfect. “But I know you. I knew Elizabeth Short as well.”

My attention sharpens. “You knew Elizabeth?”

“Intimately.” The word carries weight, suggestion. “I have information about her death. Information you won’t find in police reports or coroner’s notes.”

I should be suspicious. Should question how she found me, why she’s approaching me now. But something about her holds my focus, clouds my judgment. I find myself nodding, listening as she continues.

“Not here,” she says, glancing around with cool blue eyes. “Somewhere private. I can show you evidence that will change everything you think you know about Elizabeth’s murder.”

Warning bells sound dimly in the back of my mind, but they’re muffled, distant. I know I should call Lena, should tell someone where I’m going, but the thought slips away as quickly as it forms.

21

CALLAHAN

The Oldsmobile grumbles beneath us as we wind up the curving roads into the Burbank hills, smog hanging above us like a cloak. I grip the steering wheel tightly, following the woman’s directions without question. There’s a fog in my mind I can’t shake—not the usual haze of a blackout, but something different. More directed.

“Left at the fork,” she says, her voice carrying that subtle European accent. This brunette, who approached me outside the station with promises of information about Elizabeth Short, sits beside me like she belongs there.

“How much further?” I ask, my own voice sounding distant to my ears.

“Not far. Just beyond those trees.” She gestures toward a dense copse of eucalyptus and oak ahead, silhouetted against the brown sky. “You’re doing well, Victor. Very well.”

I should be suspicious. Should question why I’m driving a stranger up into isolated hills, especially when there’s a serial killer on the loose. But each time doubt surfaces, it dissolves like mist under morning sun, replaced by a strange compulsion to continue.

To not ask too many questions.

We pass through wrought iron gates standing open like hungry jaws, drive up a long gravel driveway lined with ancient oaks that seem to watch our approach. The mansion that appears ahead is massive—Mediterranean style, with warm lights glowing from dozens of windows, an estate that would make William Randolph Hearst give it the thumbs up.

“Welcome to our humble home,” the brunette says, a predatory smile playing at the corners of her sly mouth.

I kill the engine and stare at the house. Music drifts through the evening air—something classical I can’t identify, underscored by laughter and the splash of water.

“You seem confused,” she observes, laying an ice-cold hand on my arm. “Don’t worry. Everything will make sense soon enough.”

She guides me up the marble steps to massive double doors that open before we reach them. A man in formal attire bows slightly, his eyes never quite meeting mine.

---