Wen would undoubtedly have suggested a better route, but it didn’t matter now. He was stuck in five lanes of traffic going nowhere fast, a river of red brake lights under a darkening sky lit by LA’s otherworldly glow.
Before he’d started, Google Maps said the thirty-five-mile journey to the address Beto had given him would take just over fifty minutes by taking the 10 to the 101 north.
Now its prediction was almost two hours.
Desperate for distraction, he turned on the AM radio. A talk-show host was discussing Cara Campbell’s precarious mental state.
“The internet is awash in speculation that Cara Campbell may be considering self-harm,” he said in a cheerful baritone. “Her last post, from beside the grave of her husband, sounded hopeless. Well-wishers and chaos tourists alike have descended in droves on Forest Lawn Cemetery, while LAPD assures us Cara Campbell is no longer on the premises.”
The Western Avenue exit was a mile ahead. Surface streets had to be faster.
Jordan had not yet used his flashers or siren in LA, wanting to avoid any interdepartmental awkwardness. And he had no legal jurisdiction in Los Angeles County.
But screw it.
He hit the overheads and triggered the piercer, scaring the driver of the compact car ahead of him so badly he nearly caused a rear-end collision. A little bit of room opened up, then a little more. He made a lane change so tight he almost scraped the decal off his door.
The drivers around him got the picture and made room.
EIGHTY-TWO
CARA
Choose a job you love and you’ll never have to work a day in your life.
—Anonymous
Dusk fell as Cara left Glendale, wound her way through Loz Feliz, and climbed up into the Hollywood Hills. Dylan’s call had been a lifeline.
Come to my house, he insisted.You shouldn’t be alone.I’ll help you figure out what to do. And if you feel up to it, you can tell the rest of your story.
Dylan had to knowfiguring out what to dowas an exercise in futility. She certainly knew his invitation would only forestall the inevitable for a few more hours. So what if he was angling for the second interview she’d promised? She definitely owed him that.
And at least her story would be out there, all of it, whether she was rotting in prison or... gone.
Cara’s headlights found Dylan, who stood waiting at the top of a driveway that dropped steeply down to a white midcentury modern home. The place had to have been created by someonefamous—much like Dylan himself. Slim and wiry with high cheekbones and chestnut colored hair, he took after his willowy French supermodel mother, Daphne Boulet, much more than his football player dad.
She pulled through the gate and parked in front of the semi-attached garage. When she got out, he smiled and wrapped her in a hug that was stronger than Aunt Evelyn’s but just as comforting.
“Cara Campbell. We finally meet in the flesh. Doesn’t it kind of feel like we’ve known each other forever? I sometimes wonder if we were siblings in another life or something.”
She couldn’t say the same, though she’d seen enough paparazzi photos of Dylan and his family that his presence did feel strangely familiar.
“I feel like I’ve lived an entire lifetime in a week.”
“Save that thought,” he said, leading her to the front door. “I was thinking about it as you were driving up here. We need to get absolutely everything you can think of recorded ASAP while your memory’s still fresh. I plan to shop this around to Netflix, Hulu, everywhere! You might be even bigger than OJ was, back in the day. The more info we can get out there, the better our chance of getting your conviction overturned.”
Dylan’s manic enthusiasm, while overwhelming to Cara in her exhaustion, did light a tiny ember of hope in the ashes of her heart.
“Let’s do it,” she said, trying to sound more energetic than she felt.
Inside, the house was warm and airy, with an open floor plan, accent walls made out of restored wood, and Eames, Florence Knoll, and Paul Evans furniture.
“What a house,” she said, glancing into a living room cantilevered over the canyon with a wall of plate glass windows facing downtown LA. “It looks like a Richard Neutra.”
“Good eye. Would you believe my parents were ready to buy the place just to tear it down?”
“Why?”
