“I know,” the man replied, sliding a photograph across the table. It was her—the old her, wide-eyed and smiling, before the betrayals and the bad money. “That’s why I’m here to talk to the woman who killed her.”
The bass dropped. The neon hummed. And Lana realized her past had just walked in the door, wearing an oyster-gray suit and holding all the answers she’d tried to bury.
Lana’s pulse didn’t change. She’d learned that trick in another life. “She’s dead,” Lana said.