Chapter 18

18

T hree weeks later, Libby stepped quietly through the door of the Milwaukee group home. Could she be lucky enough that her housemates would be asleep?

"You bring me anything good?" Michael, a tall, skinny kid, asked from the couch where he lay watching some show featuring monster trucks.

"This is all they had left." She tossed him a white takeout bag. "Maybe there'll be extras from the fish fry tomorrow."

Days after arriving at the group home, Libby got a job working at a restaurant in the mall. If she was going to be stuck living in this hellhole, she planned to avoid it as much as possible. Only a few weeks had passed since her arrival on Thanksgiving Day. It felt like months.

"Damn, this is great, but where's my rings?" Michael stuffed a handful of fries in his mouth. He ate constantly, but was the skinniest guy she'd ever seen. The first time she'd laid eyes on him, she'd been terrified of his tattoos and piercings. Now she knew his image was mostly an act, probably for survival's sake. He looked tough but was harmless. He was also the closest thing she had to a friend here.

"Sorry, no onion rings tonight. Maybe next time." In an effort to blend in and not make enemies, Libby always brought back leftovers from the mall restaurant where she worked.

She walked down the hallway; her grip on her handbag tightened like a vise as she approached the girls' bedroom. Silently, she opened the door to the room she shared with Sophie, a volatile psychopath, who for some reason was determined to terrorize Libby, and Kelly, a pale girl who dyed her hair a deep black, wore dark eye makeup, and rarely spoke. Sophie sat on her messy bedsheets cleaning her fingernails with a jackknife as she rocked to her iPhone. Kelly slept soundly in her depressed state.

Ignoring Sophie, Libby went straight to her side of the room and grabbed her shower stuff. Living at the home was a cross between a college dorm and juvenile hall. You kept your stuff to yourself. You didn't share, and stealing was a common occurrence. Libby's things disappeared on a regular basis. Within hours of her arrival on Thanksgiving Day, the phone Peter gave her disappeared. Her last tie to him had been permanently cut. She'd bet money Sophie was the klepto. Libby kept her money with her everywhere she went now, including the bathroom.

She grabbed a long T-shirt to sleep in, a robe, and padded to the door. A swish and then thud rang in her ear. Libby froze. Sophie's knife stuck in the wall just inches from her face. She held her breath, afraid to turn around.

"Hey, blondie, what's the big hurry? Aren't ya gonna say hi?" Sophie lounged against the headboard, a snarl on her face.

Libby ran out of the room. At least she knew the knife was in the wall and couldn't hurt her. Sophie's cruel laughter followed her.

Inside the bathroom, Libby locked the door and rested her head against it. Her hand gripped the doorknob until she could breathe again. She hated that girl. Her mom always said it was wrong to hate, that everyone had good in them. But her mom never met Sophie.

She closed the lid to the toilet and sat down and took a few moments to pull herself together, but it was getting harder. It took Libby every ounce of energy she possessed just to survive.

Scott, the leader of the group home, was nice enough, but he didn't have a clue what went on. Why a pacifist wanted a job surrounded by teenage derelicts, she couldn't imagine. His easygoing manner kept the kids a little less stressed, but he did a lousy job with behavior management. She looked around the small bathroom. In here, she was safe from hassle, in the only spot she could be alone .

Before she took her shower, she grabbed cleaning supplies from under the sink and gave the room a quick once over. Everything in her world was a mess. At least she could shower in a bathroom that didn't have smears on the mirror and hair all over the sink. In a couple of minutes, the bathroom countertop and mirror were clean and smelled like lemons.

Libby inhaled deeply and released some of her stress. She turned on the shower and organized her stuff, pretending this was her own private place that no one would invade. After folding her work clothes, she stepped under the weak shower pressure and let warm water roll over her body. She tried to imagine she was in a magical place under a waterfall instead of this nightmarish prison.

She stood under the flow long after she was clean, wishing she could wash away the reality of her world. Her thoughts turned to Peter; she missed him so much. At least she didn't cry each time she thought of him anymore.

Libby tried to call him from the a phone at the mall soon after she arrived. She needed to make sure Garrett wasn't pulling a cruel joke, but Peter didn't pick up and a recording said his voice mailbox was full. She even called his record company, but couldn't get past the operator. Peter was now a part of her past, like every other happy part of life. No knight in shining armor for Libby.

The water turned cool. She stepped out and dressed for bed. With wet hair hanging down her back and her arms filled, she left the security of the bathroom.

Halfway down the hall, a door opened and BJ, a teenager the size of a linebacker, stepped out and blocked her way.

Shit .

BJ looked more like thirty than seventeen. He scared the hell out of her.

"I thought I heard the shower going and hoped it was you. You're always up late, working hard. You need to relax. In fact, why don't you join me and I can help." He winked.

Libby bit the inside of her cheek. There was no good way to answer BJ, and there was no way she was stepping inside his room.

"What's the matter? You scared? You don't need to be scared of me. I'll be real gentle." BJ walked toward her, put his mammoth arms against the wall, and leaned over her. He took a lock of damp hair that hung over her shoulder and sniffed. "You smell real good. I could just eat you up." Libby's stomach churned as she gripped her clothes and towel. She could turn around and run back to the bathroom. Or scream and hope Scott heard and would come to her rescue. But his room was on the other end of the house, and he slept to the hum of a sound machine.

Before she decided what to do, Michael sauntered down the hallway .

"Hey, guys, what's up? You having a party and didn't invite me?"

BJ glared at him, sending a message of cease and desist, but Michael ignored him.

"I'd love to join ya, but I need my beauty sleep. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way."

BJ stepped aside to let Michael pass. Michael pushed Libby ahead of him through the quick opening and toward her bedroom door before BJ realized what happened.

"Ladies first, don't you have some big test tomorrow or something? You shouldn't stay up so late," Michael said with a pointed look at Libby.

Libby quickly entered her shadowed bedroom and mouthed the words thank you so BJ wouldn't hear. Tomorrow, she'd bring onion rings home even if she had to pay for them herself.

The streetlight outside illuminated the room. Sophie slept on her back, her mouth open, as tunes from her phone blared in her ears. Relieved, Libby put her stuff away and climbed into the lumpy bed.

Two close calls in one night; she wished she had the guts to run away, but there was nowhere to go. Michael told her plenty of kids ran away, and the authorities were too backlogged to care or go after them. She asked why kids stayed; he said most stayed either to pay their dues for their crimes or because it was a warm bed and three meals a day .

For Michael, she believed he lived a safer life here than on the streets.

She fell asleep wishing she and Peter had run away together when he first suggested it.

"Peter?"

"Yeah, Mom." He walked to the side of the stage, eager to avoid the sound check.

"Let's go talk in the dressing room."

Peter instantly knew it was about Libby. "What? You found her? Where is she?" His heart beat with excitement.

"It's a long story."

"Tell me," he said, desperate for news.

His mom glanced around. Peter followed her gaze. Adam and Garrett watched from their spots on stage. Crew members littered the arena, securing equipment and completing final security checks.

"I'm sorry. This is not the news I'd hoped to give." She gazed at him with love and sadness.

"What? What'd you find out?" Peter demanded.

"We tried to find her, but she's gone, honey. I'm so sorry."

"What do you mean gone? Gone where?" He didn't understand.

"We don't know." She tried to soothe him with words. "The authorities arrested her aunt for selling drugs. They couldn't locate Libby's father, so they placed her in foster care."

His mom watched him closely. For once, his brothers stayed silent. Not a sound echoed in the arena as the crew looked on.

"How could they do that to her?" He shoved his hands through his hair and locked his fingers above his head, turning away to hide the anguish in his eyes.

"She tried to call you," she added.

Peter turned back to her, hoping for better news, as he fought back emotions. Please let it be with a message of where she was.

"Several times." His mom fumbled with some crumpled slips of paper. "The front office took these. They're dated a couple days after her aunt was arrested."

"And? What do they say?" He snatched them out of her hand.

"We called the number, Peter. It belonged to a pay phone at a mall in Milwaukee."

As the bad news continued, Peter stood paralyzed. His eyes became glassy as he read each message.

"Libby must have waited for hours. The last message said she was sorry." His mother spoke softly. "I can't imagine why. The poor girl never did anything wrong."

"Can they find her? There must be a record?" Peter's voice broke; he turned away, his chest heaving with each breath. He tried to hold back his emotions.

"We tried. They won't release the information. She's a minor and under custody of the state. It's the law."

"This is shit!" he snapped, as his anger overpowered his pain. "Libby's supposed to be at home with her family enjoying life, not locked up in the foster system." Peter paced. "She's too sweet and good." He turned to his mom, tears rolling down his face. "She has no one, Mom, no one." His words fell to a whisper. "I'm it. I was all she had and now she thinks I abandoned her, too!"

He paced like a caged animal, his jaw set. He stopped at the side of the monstrous speakers and pounded them with both fists. A mournful groan roared from him, startling the many who watched. He braced his head on the speakers, trying to keep control. His arms shook with rage.

All he could feel was the cutting pain of a broken heart.

His love for a sweet, helpless girl tore at him.

He turned and grabbed the edge of a heavy equipment table and upended it like a toy. Expensive equipment crashed to the ground. The onlookers exchanged concerned glances. Peter didn't care. He had never behaved like this. He was the quiet one, the responsible one, the bandleader they all counted on no matter what.

His father walked out from backstage where he observed the exchange. "That's enough, Peter, take a walk." He spoke quietly, but with a steel tone. "We have a sold-out show tonight. Pull yourself together."

Peter glared at his father, in tortured agony. "You did this." Venom tinged his voice .

Without a word or a glance to anyone, Peter walked off the stage and out of the arena.

He pulled his hood up to disappear from the world, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets as he braced against the cold December air. Not even the collection of fans gathered to catch an early peek at the Jamieson brothers noticed the brooding young man walk from the arena. His emotions strung tight; he didn't know what to do.

Damn it! Everything about this situation was wrong. So he wandered the streets, not stopping, not pausing, losing track of the world around him. He didn't care about the band, the preconcert interviews, or the demanding fans. In any other situation, he would put all these things before personal stuff, but not today. Libby had needed him and he was supposed to be there for her. He had all the money and the power. He needed to pull her out of the terrible life forced upon her. But there was no place to go. Who would help him? How could he ever find her?

He walked on. Hollow. Empty.

His throat choked up like a vise. He trudged on as the late afternoon sun set, and winter darkness threw a cold, heavy blanket over his world.

Was she okay? A foster home sounded scary and dangerous. He'd heard about kids being mistreated in foster homes. Libby was his rock, but she was also a fragile soul. She'd lost too much.

The wind picked up and tiny shards of sleet whipped at him as he pushed forward. The sharp sting of ice hit his face. His emotions deadened, his whole being numb.

He walked on.

Much later, he shook off the haze and realized he didn't know the time or where he was. He'd walked so long, locked in his thoughts. It was dark; the stores were closed for the night. He peered in a nearby window. It was well after eight.

Shit . The warm-up band would be finished, and Jamieson was supposed to take the stage any minute. He stood on the cold, empty sidewalk and battled with himself. He wanted to walk forever and never go back, but an inner voice stopped him. Damn it! His sense of responsibility won. He turned back in the direction of the arena. He must be several miles away. He didn't have his phone but did have his wallet. He picked up the pace and started to jog. After a few blocks, he hailed a cab.

"Nokia Arena, please." He climbed into the warm vehicle. "How long will it take?"

"Fifteen minutes or more in this traffic. There's a big concert tonight," the cabbie replied.

"Yeah, I know." Peter reached back and pulled out his wallet. "Make it as quick as you can." He slipped several twenty-dollar bills through the payment slot. "Stage door, please."

He leaned his head back against the seat, staring blankly. His body began to shiver, but not from the cold .

Ten minutes later, Peter stepped out of the cab, passed the security detail at the stage door, and ran backstage. The crammed area held dozens more people than normal, everyone in a panic.

All eyes turned to Peter.

"Where the hell have you been?" his father bellowed. "Do you know what time it is? There are thousands of fans who paid a lot of money to see Jamieson tonight."

"I'm here now," Peter said through clenched teeth as he moved through the crowded space, ignoring all.

A loud chant of "Jamieson, Jamieson, Jamieson," echoed from the fans out front.

"Thank God. You had me scared to death." His mother rushed forward and hugged him tightly. "You're freezing. Oh, honey, where've you been?"

He shook off her embrace and walked past the crew and technicians as they yelled into radios and rushed around to start the show. He stepped onto the lift that would deliver him to his grand entrance, the muscles in his shoulders tight knots.

The music in the arena rose to epic levels as techies used hand signals to indicate the show was a go, and the countdown started. A fog machine filled the stage in a mysterious haze as lights and lasers glowed.

"Are you ready to party?!" The announcer's voice boomed over the mammoth speaker system. The crowd responded in a deafening roar .

"Jeez, Pete, could you screw up any more?" Garrett looked ready to blow.

Peter stared through him, unconcerned. He wanted this night over.

"You wearing that?" Adam asked, guitar in hand. Peter looked down at the sleet-soaked sweatshirt, pulled it over his head, and flung it away, revealing a ragged T-shirt. He stared straight ahead, seeing nothing, his chest tight and suffocating.

Adam and Garrett exchanged concerned looks; Peter ignored them. A tech ran up and attached his headset, securing it quickly without a word. Around them, chaos reigned as the crew launched the show. The lift jerked and rose as spotlights circled the stage and the announcer spoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Jamieson is in the building!"

The crowd erupted in screams. The lift stopped high above the stage. The view was staggering. The spots illuminated the three young entertainers, as if they were statues from the heavens.

This was the last place Peter wanted to be.

He stood lost in thought. It didn't even occur to him to start the show.

Garrett took over and gave the count. He and Adam hit the strings of their instruments, and the music of Jamieson filled the air. On autopilot, Peter went through all the motions of the concert. He channeled his anger and frustration into the pulsing music. His performance was intense, the light side of him nowhere to be seen. He sang each song with anger and pain. The tender ballads became mournful wails of emotion, the high-powered rock numbers a snarl of passion. His eyes closed as he lived each word.

It wasn't their normal upbeat, chatty concert, but there existed an incredible energy that no audience had ever witnessed. Peter felt drained with nothing left to give. The final encore ended, and the trio ran offstage.

"Way to channel that anger, Pete." Garrett smacked him on the back. "We need to piss you off more often."

"Screw you," Peter spat with a venomous glare. He ripped the headset off and whipped it across the room, then stormed out the same door he came in.