Page 24 of To All the Men I’ve Killed Before

Urgh.

Why is there a fucking dog in the guesthouse?

‘You’ll need to be a bit more menacing than that if you want to scare me,’ I tell it. ‘I’ve killed people.’ The dog stops barking and tilts it head to one side, regarding me with curiosity.

‘Lana? Where are you? Oh!’ A blonde woman has followed the dog into the room. She’s tall and looks like the dictionary definition of ‘SoCal Girl’ in denim cut-offs and a floaty boho-style top. Her hair is shaved on one side and she looks achingly cool. The dog starts wagging its tail like it might take off and the woman scoops it in her arms like a baby. ‘You must be Kitty?’

‘Who are you?’ I say. ‘I’m looking for my sister.’

‘I’m Agnes,’ she says with a big wide smile. She points at the dog. ‘I see you’ve already met my child, Lana Del Gay. Antoinette’s through here. Come in, she’s sampling Lauren’s – she’s my roommate - sangria so she might not be sober for much longer. I hope Lana didn’t scare you.’

Really? I’ve seen scarier clouds.

The woman – Agnes – turns and walks through a doorway. She looks back over her shoulder at me. ‘Coming?’

I follow her, not knowing what else to do.

Why are there people making sangria in the guesthouse?

We go through the door into a thin corridor. ‘She’s just through here,’ Agnes says. ‘Lana frightened her, so Lauren and I are plying her with booze to say sorry.’ At the end of the corridor is another set of double doors that lead through to a kitchen, shiny and modern and surprisingly big. For a guesthouse, this place is huge. There’s a marble island in the middle, surrounded by bar stools, one of which my sister is sitting on. On her right is another woman. She’s got long, sleek dark hair and looks slightly older than Agnes. I’d put her age somewhere between Antoinette’s and mine. But this is LA so who fucking knows. Really, she could be anywhere from twenty-two to sixty-two with an excellent surgeon. They’re both drinking glasses of a deep red liquid. When Antoinette looks up and sees me, she’s got it around her mouth. She smiles and I can see it’s stained her teeth as well.

She looks like a vampire that’s just fed.

‘Kitty!’ she says. ‘I was just about to come and get you!’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Sangria,’ says the brunette, who I assume must be Lauren, ‘it’s my special recipe. Want some?’

‘It’s good,’ Antoinette says. ‘You should!’ She clinks her glass together with Lauren’s.

‘No thanks,’ I say, then I add to my sister, ‘I thought you didn’t drink?’

‘I don’t drink much,’ she clarifies.

Lauren gives a snort of laughter and some sangria shoots out of her nose. The dog scrabbles out of Agnes’s arms and races over to lick up the splashes that make it to the floor. Is alcohol safe for dogs?

‘Lauren and Agnes are our neighbours,’ Antoinette says.

‘What do you mean “neighbours”?’

‘They live in the guesthouse! Isn’t that cool?’

No.

No, that is very much not cool.

Has Antoinette gone out of her tiny mind? Has she forgotten about the reason I found us a discreet rental? There’s nothing discreet about having two strangers living in the garden. Like unwelcome gnomes.

Lauren is holding a glass of sangria out to me. I shake my head. She’s wearing a frilly white apron and looks like something out of a Tradwife for Beginners Pinterest board.

‘Agnes’s parents own the place,’ she says in a broad Texan accent. ‘I was just explaining to Antoinette about how WeHo has these weird-ass rules for short lets. Pretty much they gotta keep permanent tenants living here so … yeah. Here we are.’

Roommates were really not part of the plan.

Now I’m going to have to find us another place to stay.

Another place with a temperature-controlled cellar.