“It doesn’t matter whether they hound me or not. I hate the fame. I hate the touring. I hate it all.”

“No.” His expression hardened. “You don’t. Something awful happened to you. It messed you up good but if you don’t get smart, you’re going to ruin your life over it. Do you think you’re the only person in the world who has ever lost someone they loved? Get a grip. It’s time to move on. Someone who spends her days singing in the street doesn’t ‘hate all of it.’”

“Well,” I sputtered, unable to argue with that. So I lied. “I’m still locked into a contract.”

A glimmer of triumph lightened his countenance. “I’ve already checked into Tellurian. You told the band you were quitting before you left. Your old contract had come to an end so the band replaced you with a new lead singer and they signed a new contract. Your old label has no legal hold over you and definitely not as a solo artist.”

That the band had replaced me was not news to me. I’d seen it on the cover of a tabloid I couldn’t avoid when I first started traveling across Europe. Still, O’Dea didn’t know that, and he’d dropped the news with all the sensitivity of a joke during a death sentence. The girl they’d replaced me with, Macy, looked somewhat like me, my once-rainbow hair and all.

“If it makes you feel better, their sales aren’t as high as they were when they had you,” O’Dea offered.

Disgusted, I replied, “No, that doesn’t make me feel better.”

He grew quiet. It didn’t last. His impatience took over whatever decency he had. “So . . . what’s it going to be? On the streets with no guitar and no way of making money? Or access your own money to get home and let them all know where you are?”

“You would really kick me out on the streets right now?”

“I’m a businessman, Skylar. Not a philanthropist.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He shrugged.

I bit my lip to stop myself from calling him every ugly name I could think of. I choked out, “Can I think about it? Give me the night to think about it.”

O’Dea nodded. “Think on this too. If you sign that contract, you’ll be signing an addendum that states that in order to fully fulfill your obligations within the contract, you agree to consult with a nutritionist to get your weight back up to where it needs to be, to a thorough health check, and to seeing a therapist once a week.”

My lips parted at the audacity of his demands. “Are you kidding me?”

Exasperation colored his reply. “No one decides to go hungry and sleep on the streets, running away from their life because they’re mentally well, Skylar. You need to speak to someone and you need to sort out your shit. If only so we can balance out the album. We want songs that make people feel. We don’t want an entire album that makes them want to kill themselves.”

I really, really hated him. “I’m not seeing a therapist.”

“There’s no shame in seeing a therapist.”

“Then you go see one.”

“I don’t need a therapist.”

“Oh, I beg to differ. You’re a control freak. You’re awful.”

“I want you to be physically and mentally healthy. How does that make me awful?” He strode toward me and I leaned back into the couch away from him. But all he did was pick up his jacket and shrug into it. “You might not realize it, but the songs you’re writing are an attempt to heal. I merely want to speed up that process.”

I didn’t know how to respond without involving violence.

“You have tonight.”

I watched him walk away, my brain whirring. “Wait!” I called out.

He stopped and looked back over his shoulder at me.

“If I’m going to think about this, I want no bullshit between us. You say I wouldn’t have to deal with the tabloid stuff, that you’ll try to minimize it?”

“Of course.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am?”

“There’s no guarantee just because I’m a good singer with a couple songs that you like that I’ll be a success for you. No one comes after someone this hard based merely on those two facts. But as soon as you worked out who I was, it was the game-changer . . . you knew you had to have me.”

He turned fully to face me.

“A good voice . . .” I began to tick off his checklist with the fingers of my right hand as I stood. “Good songs, experience, and the kicker . . . a tabloid frenzy that will make my solo launch spectacular. You know I’ll be everywhere when I emerge back into the public. It’s the kind of publicity money can’t buy.”

He sighed. “You’re right.”

“So, you admit it?”

“Aye, I admit it. Lead singer of successful band disappears off the face of the planet after the authorities fail to find the men who murdered her mother and stepfather. She emerges two years later with a new look and a new sound. You’ll be the only thing anyone is talking about when the first single debuts.”

He said it so dispassionately but at least he was honest. There hadn’t been a lot of that in my life. And I offered him honesty in return. “I don’t like you.”

“You don’t need to like me. You need to learn to trust that I will make this album a success.”

“I might trust that if you keep things up-front from now on.”

He shrugged. “It seems you’re smart enough to know when I am and when I’m not, so I don’t see that being a problem.”

“True. But still. I want your word.”

“Fine. Honesty at all times.”

“Okay. Then I’ll think about it.”

* * *

Two years ago . . .

Billings, Montana

WE WERE BACK. PLAYING THE home crowd. The Pub Station no less, and it wasn’t our first time. This was our fourth year playing the iconic music venue we’d dreamed of playing as kids.

I sat in the private dressing room, glad our manager Gayle loved me enough to always demand a separate dressing room for me from the guys. We were in each other’s faces nonstop and sometimes it was nice to get some alone time.

The walls hummed and throbbed with the dull sound of live music. Talking Trees, an alt-rock band from Arkansas, was our opening act in our US tour. Billings was our last stop. We would take a break. I’d hole myself up somewhere away from the guys, attempting to claw back my sanity before our European tour kicked off in six weeks.

Six weeks and I’d have to do this all over again. But at least in Europe there were hotel rooms and space instead of a tour bus I couldn’t be alone in.

Fuck, I could barely get myself up out of this chair. The guys hated if I stayed in the dressing room on my own right up until the show. “The guys”—Micah, Brandon, and Austin. Micah was our lead guitarist, Brandon our drummer, and Austin our bassist. I could play guitar and the piano but Gayle decided my voice was at its best live when I only had to concentrate on singing, so I only played guitar on one track during our set. I wasn’t sure I agreed that was fair, but what did it matter at this point?

I stared glumly at my reflection, hating myself. Hating that I could be this unhappy when I had exactly what I wanted in life. When I saw other people pitying themselves when they had wealth and fame, it made me want to puke. They were the kinds of people who deserved someone sending them a card every day with an insulting reminder that they needed a better grasp on reality.

I did not want to be one of the many insipid morons I’d met over the years in this business. There were worse things in life than being stuck in a job that made you absolutely miserable. Like having a nonexistent relationship with the mother who raised you by herself, the mom who used to be your best friend.

I hadn’t called them. Mom or my stepdad Bryan. I hadn’t called them when we got to Billings. Micah, Austin, and Brandon, they were all going home to see their families after the show. To stay with them a while.

Yet, I had no clue what I was going to do. The last time I saw my mom was a year ago. The last time I’d stayed with her was eighteen months ago, and the last time I talked to her was six weeks ago. And even then, I couldn’t get off the phone fast enough. We texted. I avoided her calls all the time.