Chapter Two

"Well?"

"Well?" Chase replied.

He'd come home to find his supervising director, Andy Wellington, was on his couch, stretched back comfortably, watching a sitcom and waiting for him.

Of course, Wellington had necessarily approved his undercover investigation into the death of Jake Ferguson. That he had done so had surprised Chase—Jake's death had been accepted as an accident and had occurred years earlier. Even if it had been deemed suspicious in any way, a homicide case would have been tossed in with the rest of the cold cases by now.

Wellington didn't have a personal interest in the case; he'd admired Jake Ferguson and liked the fact his undercover agent was part of the music world.

But his interest wasn't personal, and customarily, Chase's personal interest would have kept him on the sidelines.

But it was hard to find his kind of an in.

Chase had meant to take part in the show, one way or the other. But he'd expected he'd be taking personal days to do it, and Wellington might have even tried to stop him for being too close to any possible suspects if there was a case. Then, of course, he would have had to try to convince Wellington that no, he was just sitting in for his grandfather and if he didn't, it could injure any good Chase did in undercover work since it was known—by hardened fans, at least—that he was the grandson of legendary rock drummer Hank McCoy.

Wellington sat up, folding his hands idly on his knees as he waited for Chase to talk.

The man was a good boss. Chase had read up on him and knew he was fifty-one, married, with two kids in college. He'd started in the field just like the agents he supervised now and worked his way up to his position, one he'd held for almost ten years. He could have a stern demeanor or a casual one. Six one, with a clean-cut head of silver hair and dark brown eyes, he was an impressive figure who could also look like a friendly dad.

"So? Anything?"

"Yeah, a good session," Chase told him. He shook his head. "I have known these guys my whole life—Joe Garcia, Mark Reynolds, Chris Wiley and, of course, my grandfather, Brandon, Chris's son and Skylar Ferguson. We rented the space—no roadies were with us."

"And you want to believe it was a roadie and not a friend you've known all your life," Wellington said flatly. He lifted his hands in the air. "That's all well and good, except this person has to be someone who had worked with the group time and again. The particular—and deadly—brand of stuff they discovered has shown up in every area where the band played."

"Yes, I want to believe a roadie is involved. And that it's not Joe, Mark or Chris. Honestly, I think I'd know if it was my grandfather, and you know that—"

"Yes, he's rehabbing from heart surgery," Wellington said.

"And," Chase told him, "a roadie would have had greater access to the stage and the stage equipment—including the amps."

"There is logic in that. Just don't wear blinders."

"I never wear blinders."

"But what you think is that Jake Ferguson was killed because he suspected what was going on, that someone involved was selling drugs, and he had to be shut up before he turned them in?"

Chase hesitated and shrugged. "Yeah," he said at last. "And, yes, it shouldn't be, but it is personal in a way. Jake was clean as a whistle. He had been since he'd returned from fighting in Vietnam. He wasn't a monster who lit on anyone who ordered a beer, and if his friends wanted to light up a joint here or there, he could shrug it off. But he would have never tolerated someone selling drugs—especially when so many customers might be kids or young adults. And especially since the drugs had been showing up now and then where their shows had been playing. Yes, Jake was killed, I'm convinced, and for a reason. The same reason that has you agreeing with me, when protocol suggests that it's not."

Wellington actually grinned. "Yeah. I can't bring back your rock-star friend. If my sanctioning your investigation while ‘just playing with your gramps's band' can manage that, then I can blink easily enough. But you will keep me posted every step of the way."

Chase nodded. For a minute, he wondered if he should tell Wellington he was worried. Skylar Ferguson didn't know a thing about the suspicions the FBI was harboring regarding drug sales revolving around the band, but she didn't believe her father's death had been an accident.

It worried him. It might worry Wellington enough to pull the plug.

Then he'd be more worried than ever about Sky, Chase knew.

And, really, what could he say about Skylar?

"So, is it going to be a hell of a show? Shake the arena?" Wellington asked.

"You bet."

"And you have tickets for me, right?"

"Backstage passes included, Uncle Andy," Chase assured him.

Wellington frowned at that.

"It's cool," Chase assured him. "We all called friends Aunt this or Uncle that back when I was growing up. They'll just think you're a family friend they've never met."

"But your folks—"

"Aren't coming. They've been in Ireland for the last six months. My dad flew in and out to make sure I was taking good care of his father. This has been a great opportunity for my mom, working at the museum in Dublin, so Gramps and I both insisted that Dad get back over there."

Wellington nodded. "I trust you. Obviously, you wouldn't be working for me if I didn't. All right, so I'm out of here for tonight."

Chase stood to walk him out.

"Great place you have here," Wellington told him, standing on the porch and looking toward the path that led around to the side courtyard. "You're right in the French Quarter, away from the fury of Bourbon Street, just two blocks off Esplanade and about that distance in from Rampart. Very oddly neighborhood-y."

Chase grinned. "Yeah. My grandfather, Hank, bought this place when the city was a disaster, right after Katrina. He paid too much for it, but he's a good guy, too. The family he bought it from was in trouble, no jobs, kids in college... And, yeah, I have to admit, being the grandson of a rock icon has its perks. He gave me the house as a gift when I graduated from college."

"You grew up here."

"Yeah, in New Orleans. In a house my folks still own in the Irish Channel area."

"And you're working for me," Wellington said, shaking his head.

"They still call it home, but they travel all the time."

Wellington looked around, nodding. "Well, keep your head down. See you rockin' out."

Chase nodded and watched Wellington walk away, headed down the street. He paused for a minute. No way out of it, his grandfather's success—or the success of Skyhawk—had given him amazing privileges. But he had always known that, and he had known it was because his grandfather, like Jake Ferguson, was just a good guy. From the time he'd been a child he'd been taught they were blessed and lucky and that meant they had to help others. Hank McCoy had practiced what he preached, and he was one of the few people who knew what Chase really did and who he worked for. Hank had been surprised at first about Chase's deepening interest in criminology. But when Chase had been about to graduate with his second degree, he'd told Hank a little impatiently, "You told me to help people, that we'd led a charmed life and that meant giving back. Gramps, I think I can be good at delving into things, discovering the truth. I think I can really help people this way!"

Hank had grown silent, and then he'd smiled.

"All right. Maybe you're right. But don't forget the drums, huh?"

"I love the drums. And the guitar, though I'm better at drums."

"Genetics," Hank told him. "Go out and save the world. Do me proud. But remember this. Music. Seriously. Like love, it makes the world go around."

Chase headed back in, locked the door, grimacing when he remembered it had been his idea to give Wellington a key for the times now when he might be waiting to see him privately, wanting a personal update.

His office was on the right side of the house, just behind the music room. He headed there, determined to go over everything he knew about the major players in the case.

Of course, that started with the band.

And his memories of the last concert Jake had played, and the last words Jake had said to him.

There had been about seventy thousand people in the audience, just as there had been for U2 and the Rolling Stones.

Seventy thousand suspects?

No. Because Jake wouldn't have known or had contact with the majority of the audience, though of course, New Orleans had been his hometown, so he'd have had friends there. And the other band members would have had friends. And family.

But Jake wouldn't have been talking with many people right before the show: he'd have been with the band, with the roadies and perhaps the venue supervisor. But he was angry about something he'd seen just as they had been setting up. Something he had seen someone do.

And because of the emotion involved, it suggested someone close to him.

Back to the band and the roadies.

Sometimes, roadies were attached to a venue, sometimes to a performer or group, and sometimes, a combination of the two were working.

That night...

Chase closed his eyes and leaned back. Though he'd already been intrigued by other courses in college, his focus in life that night had been music. And he'd been standing stage left, ready to sit in for Hank, something that still thrilled his grandfather since his father had chosen to follow another path, the restoration of ancient art pieces. Chase's father's work was impressive since he'd worked on pieces in major museums across the world—it just didn't compare to the fame of being a rock star. Though Chase had failed miserably at drawing so much as a stick figure, his dad had never minded that he didn't follow him into the art world, but rather he was glad that Chase made Hank so happy.

Jake hadn't just been the lead singer. He'd been the true front man. He knew how to work a crowd. He also knew how to share, kicking over to other band members, never doing a show that didn't feature each player, each instrument.

After his death...

The gigs hadn't been enormous. Joe Garcia had taken over most of the vocals, Hank had taken on a few, and Chris and Mark the rest. During his life, Jake Ferguson had recorded sessions with his daughter, wildly popular on social media through the years.

Everyone had been beyond thrilled that she had agreed to be part of this concert. It was taking place in her hometown, and the guys had assumed that she had finally agreed in a moment of weakness. She'd never shown any of them hostility; she had always been not just cordial but friendly because she didn't ever want to ruin the fact that her mom was still friends with the group and their families and when she'd been at the same place at the same time, she'd hung out with them.

But Chase knew her better. Even if it had been years now since...

They'd been together.

He winced. They'd been darlings on stage together, beloved by the group and by the crowds. So young and sweet in their puppy love, and how perfect that the grandson of the drummer and the daughter of the vocalist and lead guitarist should fall in love.

It wasn't their time together on stage that he remembered.

It was her laughter, her smile, her eyes when she looked at him. Her way of making sure that she tipped any musician they ever saw playing on the street—and there were plenty. It was the spring break when they'd escaped their families and everyone to head to St. Augustine Beach. Days in the sun, nights spent on history and ghost tours and just being together.

And then Jake had died. And she'd never said another word to him; she'd stepped away. And when he'd tried to reach her after the funeral, she had told him that she couldn't, just couldn't, see him again. Ever.

After today, he thought, leaning back and stretching in his desk chair, he knew why.

To the best of his knowledge, she'd never taken any courses in criminology. And she hadn't been near the stage when her father had died.

She couldn't have heard her father's last words—spoken just to Chase as he'd taken over for Hank on a number—so she couldn't have his reasons for suspecting that something more than an accident had been involved.

But she thought that someone in the band had killed her father. And she had surely had him on that list along with Hank.

He was convinced himself that whoever Jake had been talking about had realized that Jake was going to blow the whistle on them.

Who it was and what they had done, Chase didn't know for sure. But he suspected that it was selling drugs, that they were responsible for the contaminated drugs that had killed several people, young people among them, in the areas where the band had played.

Jake's last words had echoed in his head through the years.

"I know what's going on, and I saw... I'm going to put an end to it as soon as this gig is over!"

Then his showman's smile had taken over his face, and he'd stepped into the spotlight.

He'd seen something. Someone. And he'd meant to call the cops when the lights were down and the music and applause and screams in the crowds had ended. Whoever had been selling drugs would have known that if Jake had seen them, it was all over. He'd cleaned up the hard way himself; he'd seen too many people die who had lost their grip.

And he had known whatever he knew before the show started...

Chris Wiley, Joe Garcia, Mark Reynolds, and, of course, Chase's own grandfather, Hank McCoy.

He knew his grandfather didn't do drugs. No one could hide drug use that well, especially on the rock trail. In his time getting to meet or know about some of the most famous musicians out there, he'd seen too many who had been lost to addictions. He'd also seen those who had started out with some hard partying—something easy to fall into when you were young and suddenly rich and famous—but totally cleaned up their acts and were still performing at the ages when many people were ready to hang up their hats.

But Skyhawk...

He shook his head. Joe Garcia had never done drugs, but he still enjoyed a few beers. Mark Reynolds was known to chill with a little marijuana.

To his knowledge, none of them did cocaine, heroin or any of the hard stuff. Then again, the best dealers probably never touched the stuff themselves.

They were the four surviving original members of Skyhawk. He sat in sometimes, Sky had come with her dad, and Brandon Wiley sat in for Chris.

Sometimes, Sky's mom had come up as well.

Joe Garcia was married. Mark's one son was the CEO of a major tech company, one he had created himself. His name was David. He always seemed to be a great guy, proud of his dad who was, in turn, proud of him. Mark had shrugged when people had asked him if he hadn't wanted his only child following in his footsteps. "Just glad I could pay for the education that helped him get where he is today!" Mark said.

Then, of course, there were the roadies. The band had three that were on their payroll. Justin West, Charlie Bentley and Nathan Harrison. They were in their forties, men who had started with Skywalk at least twenty years ago when they'd been in their twenties themselves, young and eager to be with such a prestigious band.

So...

That was his suspect pool. Four surviving band members—their family members at the stage that night—himself, Sky and Brandon—and the roadies.

He was forgetting one person. Kenneth Malcolm.

Malcolm. Malcolm worked the venue. But...

The effects of the strange drug sales that seemed to follow Skyhawk had been found in various places, not just New Orleans. So that should eliminate Malcolm, but...

Sky.

He bit his lower lip, shaking his head.

She had been so loyal to her father, and he understood why. Jake had been amazing; he'd been amazing to Chase as well, all of his life. A man who truly believed in the human family and in his responsibility to give when giving was needed. The band had begun in a garage in New Orleans, but Jake had been there not just for the aftermath of Katrina, but for any other disaster hitting the country as well. He encouraged the young. He was dedicated to education for everyone. He could joke and laugh and somehow be a kind human being with the strength of steel.

That show...

He could close his eyes and still see the massive concert. The seats and floor filled, people watching and waiting, the light show beginning, the display of the colors over the crowd, over the stage, blues, pinks, reds, more.

The venue host welcoming "the amazing Skyhawk" to the stage, the band members heading out and Jake at the mic, welcoming and thanking the crowd, the beat of the drums, the chords of the guitar as Jake strummed the first notes, and the bass and rhythm and the keyboards coming in...

The crowd screaming as they began, the vibrancy, the excitement in the arena...

The first hour had gone brilliantly. Jake had called out for Hank's drum solo, he had highlighted Chris on bass, Joe on the keyboards, and Mark on the rhythm guitar. All the solos had ended with the group coming in together again, setting off into a medley of several songs. Then Jake had announced that a family member was stepping in, and Chase would be drumming. He'd walked off to escort Chase to the drums as Hank had bowed and taken off to the side. Chase had heard Jake muttering those last words, then Mark had warned there was something wrong with the amp and then...

Jake had exclaimed to the audience, "Give me a sec here, my friends... Don't want anything missed for my hometown crowd!"

They had applauded and screeched out their appreciation, and Jake had walked over to the amp and there had been a spark, a small spark, and then a sizzle that had seemed to burst through the entire massive arena before the explosion at the amp, the burst of flames...

Smoke and screams. Security trying to initiate evacuation, roadies trying to reach the band, and Jake...

Jake lying there, eyes wide open, even in death, his look stunned as the fire burned around him, charred his body...

He'd tried to run to Jake. Someone had caught him, screaming he'd been burned alive, and dragged him back to the wings and offstage and out into the night air while he'd screamed and screamed himself, knowing that Sky was there, that she would run right into the blaze.

He understood Sky's feelings, but still...

He stood suddenly. He had to talk to her. She really didn't understand what she could be setting herself up for.

He headed to the front door.

The years had been so strange. They'd avoided each other in an area that was close. Then again, he'd been studying and then working, and his strange job had taken him around the country just as it had now taken him home.

His hometown. Yes, it was where Skyhawk had begun, where Jake had lived next door to Chris Wiley, and the others had been nearby. Jake had been writing lyrics for years, strumming notes to them, and with the others, the music had been created to go with the words, and bit by bit, they had formed their first album, scraped together the money for the studio to get it recorded...

And history had been made.

It was where Jake had been born, and where he had died.

And where Chase was suddenly extremely worried that Sky Ferguson, named for the band itself, might well die.

He couldn't let it happen.

She was so determined. But she didn't know what she was doing.

She didn't know the suspected why of his death, why a killer would seek a way to end his life before Jake's sense of life and justice might bring down that quiet and subtle killer...

Yes. Time to pay her a visit.

S KY WAS STARING blankly at her schedule for the coming week. She had determined that she was going to keep moving when she wasn't with the band, but despite her resolve and opening the computer, she was simply staring at the screen, moments of the past seizing what was supposed to be her focus on the present.

She hadn't scheduled work for the next few weeks, determined that she would do the show and work with whatever aftermath there might be. She had never left music behind but rather turned it into something that gave her real pleasure. She took music lessons to troubled kids, kids of any age. Sometimes, it was working with four-and five-year-olds with behavioral issues as they entered prekindergarten. Sometimes, it was working with teens who were acting out. She'd become a certified therapist with her specialty, but she'd also discovered that the theater classes she'd taken worked well with it all, especially those in improv. Other times, she worked one-on-one with children or sat in on classes. She used her mother's maiden name as her business name, and while students often knew who she was, they thought it fun to keep the secret. The little kids had no clue what Skyhawk was anyway, but for the teens, it was a nice thrill that made them respect her with a bit more awe.

She traveled wherever she was needed. She had discovered that doing what she did was great for the mind. Keeping at what she did, of course, she'd never get rich. But she didn't need to get rich. Her dad had seen to it that she and her mom were taken care of for life.

She closed her eyes for a minute, wincing. She was glad to be home. She had a wonderful old house in the Garden District, secluded behind a tall stonework wall and gate. The home was one of the oldest in the district, and when they'd bought the place, they'd had to redo all the plumbing and electric, the kitchen and the bathrooms. But she had worked on the house with her dad who had never minded getting his hands dirty. He never expected others to accomplish every piece of what he saw as his manual labor. And, she remembered, smiling, he had also told her that they never knew when the tide might change, when his music might become something that was seldom played and of the past. The world could be a fickle place.

She started when she heard the buzzer that meant someone was at her gate. She hadn't been expecting any friends that night: they all knew that she was going to perform with Skyhawk.

But there was a telecom on her desk, and she pushed the button. "Hello?"

"It's me, Skylar. Let me in, please."

Her heart seemed to skip a beat. Seeing Chase again...

She had been so head over heels in love with him. And then she had just walked away. He'd tried to reach her.

But...

It had seemed the only way to get through her father's death had been to turn away from Skyhawk and anything and everything that had to do with it. That included the people.

And so—as she had found herself prone to do several times during her life—she had cut off her nose to spite her face.

Now, seeing him again... Nothing had changed about him that would alter her concept of what she had seen in him years ago. He was still a striking individual. No matter the passage of time, she still felt as if she...as if she could just touch him. Crawl into his arms, maybe now, at last, feel something in his warmth that was comforting to the soul...

And probably so much more! she told herself dryly.

"Skylar? I need to speak with you," he said impatiently.

Of course, he was impatient. She had been the one to build the wall. And whatever it was that he wanted...

Well, maybe his empathy had come to an end.

"Sorry. I'm here." She still hesitated, wincing. Then she pushed the button that would open the gate and then the front door.

She pushed away from her desk and hurried out to greet him at the entry.

He opened the door and stepped in. "Hey, um, sorry," she murmured.

He arched a brow to her. "For answering the door slowly? Or being incredibly rude for year upon year?"

She made a face at him.

"Sorry," he said with a shrug. "That's not why I'm here."

"Why are you here?"

"You. I'm worried about you," he told her.

She frowned. "Why?"

"Because, whether you like to admit it or not, I know you. You loved Skyhawk when your dad was alive. Now you hate it and everyone and everything around it."

" Hate is a strong word."

"So what are you doing?"

She shrugged, trying to avoid his eyes. He had always seen too much. He did now with her. More than physical attraction, it was part of what had made them such an incredible couple: they knew one another. They understood their different family dynamics. They'd respected one another's thoughts, shared explanations...

"Kind of late, but would you like some coffee? Soda, water? I may have something stronger, a beer maybe?" she suggested.

"Let's have coffee," he suggested.

"Uh...okay."

He led the way to the kitchen. Apparently, she hadn't changed much of anything through the years. She had a new coffee maker with all the bells and whistles for just about any kind of coffee someone might like, but it sat right where the old one had with the pods in a little drawer attached to the machine.

"Regular with a hint of cream?" he asked her.

"Yeah. Black?" she asked in turn.

"Yeah. I guess coffee tastes don't change through the years."

"Oh, but they do!" she protested. "I sometimes enjoy an espresso, straight and strong, and on occasion a vanilla latte."

He didn't respond.

"And you?"

"Espresso, black."

"Well, it's something," she murmured.

She headed to the refrigerator, getting cream for her coffee. He'd made hers first, so she added cream to her cup while he put through a second.

"Got any food?" he asked her.

"I'm not sure I invited you to dinner..."

"Dinner was hours ago. It's going on breakfast. I'll settle for—"

"You always were hungry. You must have the metabolism of a hummingbird."

"That doesn't answer the question."

She sighed. "What do you want? Yes, I keep food here. I know... I have cheese grits and shrimp in the fridge from yesterday, should still be good."

"Perfect."

"I'll just microwave a dish—"

"No, I'll heat them up on the stove," he said casually. "Hey, Hank always hated the microwave—said it was giving us weird brain waves. I'm not antimicrowave, just learned that a lot of things heat up better on a stove."

"Knock yourself out," Sky said. She opened the refrigerator again, digging out the container with her leftovers. She handed it to him. "There's quite a lot there. I placed an order and didn't realize I'd ordered the family size until I got home. They didn't have that kind of ordering before the pandemic years, but during that time, I guess they learned that people decided they liked picking things up to take home."

He knew to look in the lower cabinet next to the stove for the frying pan.

Sky thought that she really needed to change up her life a bit.

"Where's your mom, by the way?" Chase asked her. "Is she coming to the concert?"

"She wasn't planning to. She's in Ireland with her sister. They're doing a whole heritage kind of a thing. But..."

"Now that she knows you're going to be taking on your dad's role, she wants to come?"

Sky sighed. "Yep. I told her she's heard me all her life. That she knew Skyhawk all her life. She doesn't need to come."

"Did you argue her out of it?"

Sky shrugged. "I hope!"

"Ah, which leads to a further question."

"I didn't think you came just for shrimp and grits."

"Cheaper than a restaurant," he said.

"Right. Like you need to worry about that. Just what are you doing now? Working in some kind of lab somewhere? Never seemed like you."

"Call me a perpetual student," he said lightly, using a spatula to move the grits around in the pan as they heated. "Anyway, if it was just to see you sing your dad's songs, why wouldn't you want your mom here?"

"It's not a matter of not wanting her," Sky said. "I just don't want her feeling that she has to leave a trip she's wanted to do to come back for what she's already done."

"You're lying, aren't you?" he asked her.

"Why would I be lying?"

"Because you don't want me to know the truth," he said quietly.

Again, she felt as if her heart skipped a beat, froze in her chest.

He did know her too well.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sky lied.

He turned off the stove and lifted the frying pan, setting it on a cold burner. He turned to her, his hands on his hips, and she knew why he had come.

Of course.

"Sky," he said flatly, "you think that someone deliberately killed your father. And you think that somehow, doing this show, you're going to figure out how and why. But that's crazy. Don't you see that it's crazy? It's been years now. Even if we were all forensic scientists, it would be too late. No clues would have survived this amount of time, this amount of people in and out—"

She didn't realize that she'd walked over to him until she set her hand on his arm, shaking her head in protest and interrupting. "You've taken too many classes! It's just New Orleans. Hometown. I said that I'd do my dad's songs, that I'd be him for this."

He looked at her a long moment. She realized she had come too close. She still remembered far too much about him, the scent of him, the feel of him, and in that moment, she wanted to forget all her misery, to lay her head against his shoulder and let him hold her and tell her that everything would be all right and then...

And then touch her and let the touch become something deeper and more intimate and then, in his very special way, make her forget for a while that anything in the universe could be wrong, that there was light and beauty and incredible wonder in the place that he could take her to...a place that they never really left because they remained curled together, legs draped over legs, flesh still damp and hot and touching...

"Sorry!" she murmured. "I just—"

"You never need to be sorry with me," he said softly.

She had to step farther back, make a much lighter situation out of it.

"Oh, thought you came here tonight so that I could give you a massive apology!" she teased.

He smiled. "Oh, trust me, I haven't expected that for years." His expression grew serious again. "I meant that you never needed to apologize for touching me."

"Your grits!"

He turned to look at the pan. "Yeah. They're still there."

"Getting cold. I'll get you a dish," she said.

"Get yourself one, too."

"I'm not hungry—"

"You're never hungry until I'm eating and then you're hungry. Get two dishes."

She hadn't realized it, but he'd made her smile again.

She got two plates.

He spooned the shrimp and cheese grits onto both of them, and they sat at the kitchen table.

"I wasn't expecting dinner—"

"I already tried to tell you," Sky said. "Dinner was hours ago."

"I wasn't planning on a meal—"

"You asked for one."

"You might have refused. So this is nice. And still..."

"You came to warn me that I shouldn't mess with the past, that doing so would be worthless," Sky said. "I'm just singing."

"Stop lying."

"Just singing and playing the guitar."

"Sky." He looked at her while chewing and swallowing. He set his fork down and took a sip of his coffee.

She realized she had frozen, watching him.

He reached over and took her hand.

"You know, I love you. From the minute I first saw you, I think even as kids, I was in awe of you and in love with you. But that's really neither here nor there as far as this all goes. Sky. Listen to me. Leave it alone. Sing, play, have a good time, honor your father. He wrote great songs. He reigned with the hottest band over several decades. But don't do anything else. Don't question people. Don't interrogate the roadies. Leave it."

"Why? If everything was so innocent—"

She was startled when he winced and slammed a fist on the table.

"Sky! Listen to me, damn it! Don't you understand? If any of this was real, anything you suspect at all, then you'd be putting yourself in danger. Honor your father, Sky! How the hell do you think Jake would feel if you died because of him?"