“Everybody calm down.” Amsel sighed. “Think, new girl. How do you put a group of women, from all walks of life, together in one place without attracting attention? By being a rehab, that’s how.”

“And this is not the only one of our centers. We have six in the States, including the one in Beverly Hills and another in Half Moon Bay farther up on the Coast.”

“And we just opened a center in Switzerland, and last year, one in Aruba.”

“But why?” Kera asked.

“To treat people with addiction.”

“Very rich people,” Maeve added.

“I thought it was just a cover.”

“A cover that’s world renowned for our treatment.”

“We have some of the best psychiatrists, psychologists, and addiction specialists working for us,” Annalisa explained as they walked back to the car. “We just don’t help them here at this location.”

“Although every one of the addicts wants to come here.” Maeve laughed. “And such threats when we tell them no.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the one they can’t get into. You want to annoy some superstar singer hopped up on pain pills? Tell them they can’t have something.”

“But unless they have wings and have pledged themselves to a Viking god, they can’t get in here.”

Kera got back into the SUV. “It seems wrong.”

“Why?” Amsel asked, putting on her seat belt. “We have one of the best recovery rates in the U.S. They just don’t get recovery here, in Malibu. And an incredibly low relapse rate.”

“But what about addicts who can’t afford to come here?”

“What about them?” Maeve asked from the backseat.

“Look.” Amsel started the SUV, “we can’t take care of the world.”

“At least not for free.”

“Damn right. It’s not cheap living one’s life for a Viking goddess.”

“Besides,” Annalisa tossed in, “Giant Strides donates lots of money to other charities.”

“For the write-offs?”

“The charities get the money, don’t they?”

“What is your real problem?” Amsel demanded.

“I don’t want people thinking I’ve got a fucking drug problem.”

“Of course they won’t.”

“They won’t?”

Amsel gazed at her. “You’re too poor to be a patient here.”

“You couldn’t possibly afford this place,” Maeve said while focusing on her phone.

Amsel started down the driveway again. “Just tell people—if anyone asks, which I doubt they will since you’re not exactly friendly—that you workhere as an orderly. You’re a burly former Marine . . . they’ll believe it.”

“What about when I go back to the coffee shop?” Kera asked.

“Why the hell would you go back to the coffee shop?”

“Because I need an actual job . . . ?”

“Then get one. Something you truly want to do.”

“The Crows will pay for your education or additional training. Or if you need an office or whatever, they’ll set you up.”

Kera looked back at Annalisa. “They will?”

“Honey, this is your second life, which means you don’t go back to your crappy first one, which got you killed in the first place. Instead, you make the best of this new life.”

“What did you do before?”

“I told you. I was a sociopath. So whatever made me quick money and destroyed people’s will to live . . . that was my jam. I was really good at it.”

“And now?”

“Forensic psychologist.”

Kera knew she was gawking but . . . really?

“I know,” Annalisa said with a smile. “But if anyone has a true understanding of the workings of the sociopathic mind . . . it’s me. I work with LAPD all the time.” She paused for a moment, glancing out the window. Then she leaned in and whispered, “Sometimes, when I’m missing my old life a bit, I fuck with the sociopaths’ heads. Can’t help myself sometimes. They can be such douche bags. Then again . . . that’s probably a little self-hate.”

Kera nodded. “Of course.”

“If you don’t know what you want to do,” Maeve suggested, “you can always work at one of our other clinics. It’s not hard work. Just addicts talking about their”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“ ‘personal truth’ and getting hysterical when we run out of Mountain Dew.”

“Mountain Dew?”

“They seem to be fans.”

“They also like Diet Coke and Doritos.” Annalisa glanced out the window. “I never get the Doritos, though.”

Amsel stopped the car in front of the house and sighed. “Oh man. They struck again. Chloe is going to be pissed.”

“Who?”

“That ridiculous neighborhood committee.”

Kera followed Amsel’s line of sight and saw that a thick envelope had been taped to the door.

“What is that?” she asked.

“More complaints.”

“All they do is complain,” Annalisa added. “But it’s been getting out of control this past year.”

“I think I have a fever,” Maeve tossed in, again feeling the glands under her chin with the tips of her fingers.