He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, remembering the way Layla looked when she’d jumped out of nowhere. Serious. Determined. Convinced he wouldn’t harm her. It was instinct that had forced his foot to the brake. Any decent person would’ve done the same. Still, it wasn’t just an innate sense of morality that had kept him from hitting her. Truth was, he’d wanted to save her. Protect her. Probably because he felt guilty for pointing the finger at her.
Though that wasn’t to say he trusted her. If nothing else, Madison’s disappearance had permanently erased any hint of country boy naïveté that had managed to survive the trip from OK to LA. People were much more complex than they ever let on, making him wonder if it was ever really possible to truly know anyone—if he could ever truly know himself. When he’d first arrived in LA, he’d carried all kinds of bogus beliefs about who he was, where he was going, and exactly how he’d go about getting there. Only to find himself buffeted by the whims of circumstance, reacting in ways he never could’ve foreseen.
The ping of an incoming call interrupted his thoughts, as a picture of his mother bloomed on the screen. Thanks to her tabloid-reading neighbors, she called all the time. Claimed she didn’t want him working for Ira, but whenever Tommy pressed for a reason, she changed the subject, begged him to come home, but that was no longer an option.
He let the call go to voice mail, promising himself he’d return it later, and scrolled for Aster’s number. It was probably a mistake. But they could always leave if Layla proved to be as crazy as he suspected her of being. He turned the key in the ignition, once, twice. The engine sprang to life, and he squinted out the side-view mirror and merged onto the street.
“Layla wants to meet at Hollywood Forever, at Johnny Ramone’s grave,” he said, before Aster could speak.
“Who is this?” Her bitchy tone told him she knew exactly who it was.
He rolled his eyes, switched tracks on his playlist, and waited for her to stop playing games.
“The answer is no,” she snapped. “No, scratch that, the answer is actually hell no.”
Tommy stared at the bumper sticker on the Prius in front of him—a call for tolerance, unity, and world peace—too bad the owner drove like a tailgating asshole. “I think you should reconsider,” he said.
“Oh, how you tempt me,” she sang.
“Look—I have no freaking idea what this is about, but I’m on my way there. Maybe I’ll see you.”
“But more likely not.” She ended the call before he had a chance to.
He tossed the phone on the passenger seat and made his way to the cemetery he’d visited not long after he’d first arrived in LA. He’d wanted to check out the monument and statue of Johnny Ramone playing guitar that marked the place where his ashes lay. There’d been an abundance of flowers left in his memory and plenty of fans hanging around. Even in death it seemed Johnny was still living the dream.
Still, why would Layla choose to meet in a cemetery? Was it random, or did the choice have some deeper, symbolic meaning? It didn’t make sense. But lately, not much did.
He hoped she wasn’t dumb enough to try to manipulate him into admitting something he’d live to regret. Just in case, he resolved to record the conversation on his phone. Then he’d sit back and wait for either Layla or Aster to hang herself. If they chose to go down, he wouldn’t go with them.
FIFTY-THREE
MISSING PIECES
The last thing Aster Amirpour wanted was to meet Layla and Tommy at some creepy cemetery filled with a bunch of dead Hollywood has-beens. Despite all its hipster movie screenings, themed parties, and reputation as a cool place to go on a date, she’d never felt the need to visit.
One cursory glance at the manicured lawns, the lake teeming with swans, and the elaborate mausoleums and grave markers honoring those who’d passed on was enough to convince her she’d be better off racing back to the comfort of her Mercedes and getting the hell out of there. Either Layla was planning a setup, or she was even more messed up than Aster had thought. Aster had told Tommy she wouldn’t show—she should’ve honored her word.
Despite the blazing heat, Aster ran her hands over her bare arms, warding off shivers, as she went in search of some dead rock star’s grave. The crowds of tourists treating it like another place to visit between trips to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and Disneyland were annoying, as they clomped across the lawn, camera in one hand, five-dollar map in the other, searching for the final resting places of Jayne Mansfield, Rudolph Valentino, Cecil B. DeMille, and whoever else made their list. She rolled her eyes, seriously considering bailing on the plan, when Tommy found her and they agreed to find the monument together.
“You made it,” he said.
She shrugged, still not sure why she hadn’t stayed home.
“It’s over in the Garden of Legends,” he said. “Next to the lake with the swans.”
“Let me guess—not your first visit?”
“He was an amazing guitarist. I wanted to pay my respects.”
Aster eyeballed him from behind a pair of pink-tinted aviators it was almost too shady to wear, and tried not to judge. She’d been rude enough on the phone; maybe she should give him a break. “It would be really nice to know what this is about,” she said, hoping she wasn’t walking into a trap. Where Layla was concerned, it was entirely possible.
Tommy shrugged and walked in silence alongside her, the two of them approaching the gravesite where Layla watched from under the brim of a straw fedora that had seen better days.
“You came.” She removed her sunglasses and regarded them with an expression that was simultaneously surprised and relieved.
Tommy shrugged. Aster folded her arms across her chest and stood beside him. Better to let Layla think they stood in solidarity against her. Whatever it took to keep Layla as off balance as Aster currently felt.
“I’m glad you did.” She spoke in a voice that rang far more tentative than Aster expected. “We need to find a way to work together.”