Chapter One

2024

"Hey, our guys are young in comparison to a few of them out there!"

Sky smiled as she listened to Brandon Wiley, five years her senior and the son of Chris Wiley, bass guitarist for Skyhawk—not quite as late of a bloomer as her father. "Come on, now. My dad wasn't even twenty when they put the band together," Brandon continued. "He's a mere sixty-nine!"

"And I take nothing away from your dad, for sure!" Sky promised. "He's an incredible performer. And I'm betting that my dad still would have been incredible, even at seventy-five!"

"Agreed. Hey, Mick Jagger is over eighty and I saw one of his performances last year—the dude still rules the stage," Brandon said. He paused, looking down. "Sky, I'm so sorry about your dad—"

"Thank you. I know." Her smile was a constricted one. "And my mother would have insisted on an autopsy, even if the supposedly accidental death hadn't called for one. There were no drugs in my father's system. What happened was—"

"Truly a tragic accident," Brandon said quickly. "We all know that. And, of course, we went over and over it all when it happened, and I didn't say that to dredge up the past."

They stood in the studio in the New Orleans Central Business District where Skyhawk had recorded their first album. Sky turned, wincing, because on the wall, there was a picture of the original band members of Skyhawk: her father, Jake Ferguson, vocalist and lead guitar; Brandon's dad, Chris Wiley, bassist; Joe Garcia, keyboards; Mark Reynolds, rhythm guitar; and Hank McCoy, drummer.

Her dad—at the ripe old age of twenty-five when he'd started the band—had been the oldest in the group. And it was true—compared to some of the rockers still dancing their hearts out on stage, the remaining members of Skyhawk were just in their sixties. Back from the service and freshly graduated, her dad had been asked for help from Hank McCoy, a neighbor, and in helping out someone he saw as a little brother, Jake had wound up creating Skyhawk.

And the remaining members of the group could still rock the house—now sometimes with the help of children and grandchildren.

Sky had been asked to join with the group before. The band was still getting gigs—good ones. But not the instantly sold-out gigs they'd gotten when her father was alive.

For years, she'd politely refused any interaction with the group. Her mother had remained close friends with many of them and their assorted wives, ex-wives and children. But the publicity surrounding her father's death still plagued her.

He'd been electrocuted by a faulty amp. The accident had been deemed user error .

She had never believed it. Her father had known how to set a stage, but, of course, once Skyhawk had gotten big—and then huge—they had roadies to handle all of that for them. But something had been wrong that night, and Jake Ferguson had gone to check the amp and...boom. Electricity had crackled, and the explosion of the equipment and the ensuing fire that might have engulfed the entire place had taken his life.

Drugs had immediately been suspected, and headlines had read different versions of Did Ferguson Crack after Nearly 50 Years of Clean Living?

She'd been furious, of course. And the autopsy had served them well: no, he had been clean as a whistle.

Accident. It had been a tragic accident.

Somehow, though, Sky couldn't accept it. The part of her who had adored the man who had received such adulation and still been the best husband and dad in the world argued that there had to have been something amiss. Her logical self argued that even if there had been something off, there would be no way she could discover what it was this long after the fact. Because while the facts of his death had gotten out, she knew there were many among his fans and his doubters who were convinced it had all been a cover-up.

"Sky."

She was startled to hear her name spoken softly in a deep, rich and quiet voice. Swinging around, she saw that Chase McCoy, the grandson of the drummer, had arrived.

She winced. She'd been eighteen, Chase twenty-one, when they'd fallen into a wild crush. Life had been fun then. She had just entered college, following in her parents' footsteps, majoring in music. Chase, three years her senior, had been sitting in for Hank, playing drums for several of the gigs, making his own name. Her dad had brought her on stage for a ballad he had written, a song that still commanded the airwaves, as well as several music platforms.

And Chase...

Well, she'd been eighteen, and a pretty typical eighteen. Bursting into adulthood with tremendous excitement. She had the most loving and supportive parents in the world, wise beyond their years, parents who had seriously taught her the dangers of excess and more.

Somehow, they hadn't prepared her for Chase.

First, of course, at that age, she had gone for the physical. Chase was simply striking. A solid six three of lean muscle with dark auburn hair and hazel eyes that could burn like crystals. He could play, and he had a voice that lent incredibly to Skyhawk songs and backup vocals. Jake Ferguson had loved him and his talent and had been writing a song especially for him when...

When the accident had occurred.

And at that point, she'd backed away from the band and, to the best of her ability, anyone associated with it.

She'd heard that Chase was now doing much more than music. While many thought that garage-band talent was instinctive and natural, both Hank and her dad had believed in higher education, and while Chase had also continued his music studies, she understood that after her father's death, he had opted for a major in criminology, had graduated and was working in that field somewhere. She wasn't sure who he worked for or what he was doing.

Except now, of course, he was filling in on drums for Hank, who had recently had heart surgery. Hank was going to be around, supervising and commenting, Sky was certain. But Chase would be the drummer for most of the numbers they were doing.

"Chase. Hey. How are you doing?" she asked, relieved her voice sounded completely casual. She still felt anything but casual regarding Chase.

But everything that had happened had been her fault.

That had been years ago now. They had both gone on. But there had been a time when they had lamented being the daughter of one rock star and the grandson of another.

Not as bad for him as it had been for her, Chase had always told her. The lead vocalist was always the front man, the name and face people knew. Those who just listened on the radio or bought the music knew the name of a group if they loved it, and after that, the name of the lead singer, and not so much the other members of the band.

She wondered now if that was still true. There had been so much publicity when her father had died. The media had hopped on it, interviewing band members, fans, producers...

She had managed to hide away. Mostly. Once upon a time, she'd recorded with her father. And that recording had hit the airwaves big-time.

Chase was studying her. She wondered if he was reading her mind.

"So, cool," she murmured. "I'm going to be my dad, and you're going to be your grandfather."

"And you are going to have to rehearse like hell," Brandon said dryly, grinning. "I've only been asked to sit in on a few numbers and some backup vocals. You two... What is Skyhawk without the lead vocalist and a kick-ass drummer?"

"Well, here you go, Brandon. We grew up with these guys, with this music," Sky told him.

"She's right. I think I knew a lot of the Skyhawk lineup before I knew my ABCs," Chase told him. "So today is—" He broke off, looking around the studio. It was meant for recording, but today, they would be putting together the fivesome playing the main frame of the performance, Joe Garcia still on keyboards, Mark Reynolds still on rhythm guitar and Chris Wiley on bass—except on a few numbers where he wanted Brandon to sit in. "Today, we're just seeing how we do," Chase finished.

"Yeah. My dad and Mark and Joe should be here any minute," Brandon said. He looked at Sky. "Are you going to do your dad's ballad?" he asked quietly. "My dad said that you've turned them down every time they've asked you on stage, even to do the ballad."

Sky forced a smile and shrugged. "I don't know. You mean ‘Grace,' I take it. My dad wrote several ballads."

"Yeah," Brandon said. "That one. Come on, kid, that video of you and your dad years ago is still viral. It could make this whole thing for everyone!"

"Maybe," she murmured.

"Hey," Chase said. "If it hurts you to do it—don't. But think about it. Maybe doing it in his memory will be good for...well, for you remembering the good times and...learning to go on despite what happened."

"I am going on!" she protested. Though, in truth, telling her that to do or not do the song was her decision was Chase standing up for her. "My dad has been dead years now, and I am a normal, functioning human being," she assured them both.

"Oh, yeah, of course!" Brandon said. "It's just that music is something you always loved so much—"

"And then again, define normal !" Chase teased.

Sky found she was laughing— normally . Chase had a way of saying things that made uneasy moments easy. Teasing, gently. And yet, when she looked at him, she thought she remembered enough about him to see that behind his banter, he was worried about her.

She forced another sweet smile.

"Let's face it, we're the family members of rock stars. No one expects us to be normal," she assured Chase. "And you! More than anyone. As amazing on the drums as your grandfather—and you stopped music to major in criminology. What? Have you decided to be a cop? May have to change your name for that, and unless you have major plastic surgery, you'll never be able to go undercover."

Chase shrugged. "I found out that I liked it, that it's fascinating."

"What? Ugh. Studying blood and guts?" Brandon asked.

"All kinds of cool stuff—not so much blood and guts," Chase countered. He shrugged. "I already had my arts and music degree, but I realized I find fingerprints, shoeprints, fibers and especially the psychology of crime to be fascinating. It is really amazing what profilers can come up with."

"And screw up with, too, right?"

"It's an inexact science, but right more often than not. It's not a be-all and end-all. It's a tool like dozens of the machines out there that can pinpoint where certain soil particles might have come from and where fabrics were made... Trust me, it's cool. Fun, intriguing," Chase said. "Anyway..."

The door to their rehearsal area opened and closed. Joe Garcia and Mark Reynolds had arrived.

"Sky!" Mark exclaimed, stepping forward to encompass her in a great hug.

She'd communicated with him—and Joe, Hank and Chris—through the years, politely refusing every time they'd asked her to join them.

She'd even seen them a few times: her mother had remained friends with everyone, grateful for their support, she had told Sky.

She'd never understood Sky's aversion to her father's people. And Sky couldn't explain to her mother that she just didn't trust any of them.

A therapist would tell her that she just couldn't accept the truth.

But that wouldn't cut it. They would never understand. She couldn't accept what she didn't believe to be truth. Her mother had tried so hard to help her, and for her mother's sake, she had pretended she was accepting her dad's death and moving on.

And as far as her father's band, well, it had been simpler just to go her own way.

But now...

"All right, then!" Joe Garcia announced, grinning. "Let's start with some of our hard rockin' tunes and go on from there. Everything is here: drums, keyboards, guitars and, most importantly, us! Let's get to it. Sky of Skyhawk!"

She smiled. She had always loved Joe. He was a good guy. The youngest in the group at a mere sixty-seven, he could pass for a man twenty years his junior. He had a rich headful of snow-white hair, worked out daily, she was sure, and looked more like a rugged action star than a musician. He had a keen sense of humor and, more importantly, a solid grip on life, reality and the simple fact that fame meant nothing if you didn't have your health and people to love. His wife, Josie, was one of Sky's mom's best friends. Joe and Josie had never had children of their own; instead, they had spent their time helping out at children's hospitals and seeing that those in areas devastated by wars, famine, fires and storms found the care they needed.

She reminded herself she believed someone here was guilty of being involved in her father's death.

But not Joe.

"I'm sitting in for my dad until he gets here," Brandon told them. "But I've done it before. Chase, you've actually sat in a few times, too. So... Sky. You ready for this?"

She smiled sweetly. "As ready as I'll ever be," she assured them.

Mark Reynolds, slim, wiry and with his own full head of snow-white hair, touched her gently on the shoulders.

"Your dad will be smiling from heaven," he said softly.

"Thanks for that. So..."

"Hey, Chase has been the drummer before, and you've played and sung for your dad before, and Brandon sits in, too, so it's just darned cool we're together and doing this. Think about it! Your dad would be seventy-five, and he created the band in the seventies, several decades of music. We're pretty darned..."

"Old?" Brandon suggested dryly.

"Hey!" Chris protested, glaring at his son when he arrived.

"Sorry, Dad!"

"Jagger is still older. Sir Paul McCartney is older! We're classic rock," Chris said.

" Classic , okay!" Brandon teased. "Come on, my fellow generationers," he begged. "Help me out here."

"Oh, hell no, you're on your own!" Chase teased.

"Right. Age is all in the mind, and you've got a young mind, right, Dad?"

"Yeah. The mind is still young. The knees—not so much. But when the music is going...I'm young at heart."

"Right. And whatever! Let's go. I've got a list. We'll start with ‘Rock the World.' And go, go, go!" Mark said.

Chase slid onto the stool behind the drum set, Joe moved over to the keyboards, and the others picked up their instruments.

Sky knew the songs. She feared, though, that she'd be awkward, that her timing would be off...that something wouldn't be right.

But she moved her fingers over the opening chords and slid easily into one of Skyhawk's most popular songs.

"R OCKING THE WORLD , in the best way, come on,

I say, let's make her the very best today.

There was a time my soul was sad, out there everything was bad,

in a world so bad, let's change the fad, it's time, it's time, it's time, today,

because we are the way.

In a world of troubles, we can hit a few doubles,

being the good

the way that we should.

Now my heart sings as I rock the world, rock the world, rock the rockin' world!"

F AST , WITH GREAT riffs and a drum solo, it was one of the songs that could just about wake the dead and cause the staidest human being to dance or, at the very least, wriggle in a chair to the music.

Chase killed the drum solo.

She picked up with the second verse, thinking of the person her father must have been back in 1974. He'd fallen into a horrible place but come back from it, even through war and the horror of seeing friends blown to bits. But he was determined, as he had once told her, that the more good done in the world, the less the bad could conquer.

She sang the second verse, and they held a long note before the drums slammed in for the crescendo.

And while Chris Wiley was playing his guitar, Brandon was at a mic for backup on the chorus refrains, and to Sky's surprise, the signature song went off without a hitch.

They were all silent.

"The rest of this can't possibly go so well," Joe Garcia said, shaking his head. "Wow."

"Onward," Mark said.

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Joe agreed.

"No, I meant ‘Onward' is the next song on the list," Mark said dryly.

"Onward and onward," Sky said, surprised that, once again, her fingers moved over her father's guitar strings, and the words came swiftly to her lips.

There were a few snags, a few suggestions from one band member to another, and a little reworking, but for the most part, they sailed through the rehearsal.

And they were shockingly good, in sync.

Sky found she was enjoying herself. Skyhawk songs, mostly written by her dad, perhaps didn't comprise the most brilliant lyrics known to man, but with the music that was catchy and almost magical, the pieces stood the rigors of time.

"Sky, ready?" Joe Garcia asked her.

She was startled. The ballad. They wanted her to do her father's ballad.

"Intro is the keyboard," she said. No way to put it off. And it was ridiculous. But it was the one song she had done at home with her father, sitting in the living room, talking about life. He wanted her to live her dreams, never his or her mother's, but her dreams. They didn't have to be musical dreams.

And she had assured him she didn't know what she wanted out of life—except to have a family as beautiful as the one he and her mom had created for her.

He'd hugged her. She'd asked him about his favorite song.

The ballad. "Dreams."

Keyboards, a gentle guitar entry, then the lyrics...

"Like the falcon soars to the skies

My heart is lifted with a magic like their wings,

For in the depth and beauty of your eyes

All that is me, deep in my soul, rises high

And sings.

There is magic, magic, in this thing I feel,

Magic, magic, my heart on fire

And I know that it is real."

Chase joined in on the chorus, his voice deep and rich. She was pleased at how wonderful he sounded and that it was oddly good while it hurt at the same time. She turned to glance at him as she sang. He was looking at her.

And she wasn't sure of what she saw in his eyes. Empathy? Strangely...worry.

"There is magic, oh so real, beauty in this thing I feel, my heart rises to skies,

For the magic in your eyes. Magic...magic..."

She almost missed the first beat of the second verse, but in the end, she finished the song—again with the chorus.

Again, with Chase McCoy.

She was stunned when the rest of the group applauded energetically. She turned to see Joe heading over to her, taking her into his arms in a warm hug.

"Oh, Sky, your dad would be so proud!" he exclaimed.

Mark said softly, "Tears in heaven, that was so... beautiful. You did him proud, kid."

Brandon and Chris Wiley echoed their congratulations.

"Skyhawk is going to soar!" Brandon added excitedly.

She thanked them all.

Only Chase hadn't spoken. He was still at his drum set. Watching her, that strange mix of empathy and concern in his eyes.

"Okay. So much for flattering ourselves!" Mark said. "Tomorrow afternoon at the arena, and the night after—showtime."

"And remember, we've been in a studio rehearsal space—next will be at the arena, and we all know that we have to adjust to the size of a location," Mark said.

"We'll have the crew there, too," Joe reminded him. "Setting up the amps for sound—"

He broke off awkwardly. There was silence.

"Guys, it's okay," Sky said. "The world will always be filled with amps. I can hear the word."

"Right, just sorry, sorry!" Joe said.

"We're all sorry," Chris Wiley said. "We'll miss your dad 'til the day we die ourselves, Sky. He wasn't just a bandmate and a friend, he was one of the finest men I've ever known."

"Thank you. And it's okay. Seriously," Sky said. She looked around.

And she thought of the years and years her dad had played with Skyhawk. Like Chris had said, these guys weren't just workmates, they had been Jake's friends, dear friends, more family than anything else.

How could she possibly believe one of them may have wanted him dead?

"Okay, I have date night with the old ball and chain," Mark said. "Ouch! Did I say that? I meant my beloved wife. Hmm. No wonder your dad wrote the best ballads, Sky. I'm a jerk. I love Susie, been with her thirty years, so..."

Sky laughed. "It's okay. You can joke around me, too."

"Yeah, just offensive, but cool," Joe assured him. "Anyway..."

Mark waved and headed toward the door. He paused, looking back. "Chris, Joe, Hank and I have been doing these songs forever, and you three—Brandon, Chase, Sky—have sat in at various times through the years. But I never expected today to go this well. Okay, so...for some of us, after all these years, it would be pathetic if we weren't in sync, but you kids were. Well, thanks, and great!"

"Thank you, Mark," Chase said. Sky smiled and nodded, ready to head out herself. This rehearsal had been her return intro.

Now she needed to think. Maybe make a few notes.

A few notes about what? Did she think if one of them was guilty, they would just fall apart in front of her today?

"I'm heading out for a beer after that," Brandon said. "Anyone want to join me?"

"I'll go with you, kid," his father said. "Joe?"

"Yeah, sure. I'm in," Joe said.

"Sky, come on!" Brandon said.

"Maybe tomorrow night. I didn't sleep well. A little nervous, maybe," she lied.

"We'll hold you to it!" Chris said.

"Chase?" Brandon asked. "You're not going to make me go out alone with the old guys, are you?"

"Rain check for tomorrow night, too," Chase said. "I have some work—"

"Work! Why do you work when you could hit the road with us forever?" Mark asked him. "Your granddad would love it!"

"I love sitting in. Not sure I'm ready to be a forever drummer," Chase said. "Anyway, good night, all!"

He headed out as well with everyone trailing him. They waved again, breaking apart to head to their various parking places.

Sky was in a garage off Canal, and she walked down the street, deep in thought at first.

Then something seemed to disturb her; she felt as if she was being followed.

When she stopped and turned to search the area, no one was there. Well, people were there, but no one who seemed to be paying the least bit of attention to her.

No one from Skyhawk.

She shook her head, wondering again if she wasn't crazy and if she wasn't letting her suspicion turn to paranoia.

With a shake of her head, she hurried on to the garage.

It wasn't until she reached her car on the third level that she stopped dead, staring.

Chase was there. Leaning against the front of her little SUV, arms crossed casually over his chest as he watched her approach.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

But he shook his head, staring at her curiously. "The question is this. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

She angled her head and narrowed her eyes. "I'm taking my dad's place. Just like you're sitting in for Hank—"

"I've sat in before. You've avoided the band like the plague."

"I've changed my mind."

He walked over to her, not touching her, just standing a few inches from her. "I know you," he said softly. "And I know how you felt about your father. I don't know what you're up to, but I do know this. You've got to be careful, Sky."

"I'm not up to anything. Why should I be careful? My dad died because of a tragic accident, right?"

"Please, be careful."

He turned and left her. She saw that he had parked in the same area of the garage.

Had he followed her?

He was already in his car.

"Chase!" she called, walking toward him. His engine was running.

She stepped in front of his car. He wasn't going to hit her; she was sure of that.

Of course, he didn't. He looked to the side.

She walked around to the driver's seat. He lowered his window.

"Why do I need to be careful? What do you know? Who do you think—"

"I don't know anything, Sky. But if there was anything to know, you slinking about trying to make someone guilty of something could put you in extreme danger."

"You do know something," she said.

He let out a soft sigh, staring straight ahead. "Again, I don't know anything. But I do know if there's anything to know, you snooping around could put you in danger. Sky, just—"

"You're just repeating yourself. I don't need you to worry about me," she said.

He turned and studied her. "Yeah. You made that perfectly clear a few years back," he said softly. "But you know, sorry, in memory of your father, I worry about you anyway."

She was suddenly afraid she might burst into tears. And it was all so ridiculous. She had walked away. Her father's death had been devastating to her, and she'd probably hurt herself—and her mother—with the way she'd retreated inward.

But that was long ago now. And she'd heard that Chase had moved on. He had kept studying, but he'd sat in with other groups in the past years. He'd been seen with a few of the hottest, newest female acts out there.

She lowered her head. She wasn't about to cry.

"My father didn't make a mistake with an amp," she said simply. "Sorry. Something happened the night he died. And since you're so determined that I'm up to something, you might as well know I will never accept that it was his fault in any way. Good night."

She turned to head back to her own car.

And she wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed that he didn't follow her.

If she closed her eyes, she could remember the past too clearly.

Along with all she had so foolishly thrown away.