Chapter 3Kris spent most of Saturday trying not to vibrate out of his skin from nerves. Justin spent all day not calling him.
He got up early. He made tea. He stared at the tea. He tapped a foot.
He did laundry. He’d acquired this skill in recent years. He’d always thrown out old and bought new celebrity-trendy items, or paid someone to handle it, before. He liked being able to do it himself: like a normal person, not Kris Starr but Christopher Thompson, forty-three, living alone in an admittedly expensive penthouse in New York. Christopher Thompson, he decided, was probably an architect or an accountant, and went to modern art galleries, and conscientiously contributed to save-the-planet and equal-rights-for-pixies campaigns.
He understood perfectly well that even his alternate-univers
