Chapter 29

Micah

I've spent the last thirty minutes in recon mode—tracking Troy through the grounds, taking note of where his trailer is located and where his tour bus is parked, and trying not to be sick at the thought of what could be true. I'm finally on the way back to the tour bus to find Raegan when I see her bolt in the opposite direction.

The odd sight causes me to hustle, and soon I'm jogging through the moonlit grounds, following Raegan outside the private gate behind the stage and uphill to the main area. There are still hordes of people gathered everywhere I look, dancing and laughing and carrying on as if it's still early in the evening when it's after eleven. I can barely make out the shape of the phone pressed to her ear, and I have no clue who she'd be talking to at this hour or who would even be able to hear her in all of the commotion.

When I finally catch up on the back side of the grounds, she's inside a misting tent that's now a shelter from the wind. Her blotchy, tear-stained face sets off an internal alarm, and I stand to the side and watch her pace while the tent canvas beats against the metal poles. Her hair has fallen from its twisted glory, and she swipes at the curls that stick to her damp cheeks as she speaks to whomever is on the other end of that conversation. Within five seconds I realize it's Chip.

Concern heightens my senses as I put two and two together. Her family must know about the tell-all.

When she sees me, her pacing stops, and less than a minute later her call with Chip ends and her face crumples.

"You told your family?"

"No." Her voice is strained, stressed. "The interviewer told them. Some producer got wind of my book deal with Fog Harbor and asked my mother about it tonight, in front of my whole family and whatever viewers and fans will tune in."

"Wait, how did the media get wind of it?" I'm struggling to understand. "You haven't even signed a contract yet."

"I don't know." She lifts up her phone. "Chip swears it didn't come from his publishing team. He said they're all rock-solid individuals he'd bank his career on." She releases an exasperated cry. "I only needed one more day!"

Raegan continues to speak, but due to the raucous diehards who've begun a conga line to some twangy '90s song blaring from a personal stereo system, I haven't a clue what she's saying. The line grows in popularity rapidly, and soon people are grabbing onto strangers.

I twist to scan the massive grounds for a better place for us to converse when I see the rotating neon lights of the Ferris wheel and the empty passenger cars.

"Come on." I grab her hand and haul her through the admissions gate.

"Really, Micah? My family just imploded. The last thing I want to do is ride a Ferris wheel."

"It's this or being forced against our will to join the conga-line people. You choose."

She jerks her head toward the ride, and a few seconds later I lift our joined hands to flash our green wristbands at the operating attendant. We climb into the passenger car without delay and secure the lap bar. We're nearly twenty feet off the ground when the sound below fades enough for her to speak again in a normal volume.

"It was horrible, Micah. Adele is ... " She shivers in her dress, and I pull off my sweatshirt and drape it across her bare shoulders. "I've only ever seen her this mad one other time—at Peter."

I think back to all the stories I've heard about Peter's transgressions against the Farrow family and the label and try to guess at which one caused the biggest stir for Adele specifically. "When he won the lawsuit against Farrow Music?"

"No, when Hattie spiraled after he chose to stay with Francesca and moved out of their house. His betrayal was so traumatic—it rippled through our entire family." Raegan drops her head in her hands. "And now I'm the betrayer."

I study her profile in the moonlight. "That's a strong word. You don't actually believe that, do you?"

"Who cares what I believe—they believe it." She twists in the car, and I notice then we're almost at the top of our first rotation. "Adele accused me of putting my dreams above the family and jeopardizing a business transaction that could cost the future of the company, and Hattie couldn't even face me once I told them how I'd determined Peter was the author behind the tell-all. And Mama ... " Her chin quivers violently. "She was actually defending me until—until the ugly truth came out." A stiff breeze rocks the passenger car as we halt near the top of the wheel. Raegan reaches out to grip the safety bar. "I have no idea how to fix this."

When we first embarked on this road trip, I might have been inclined to believe that was true—that Raegan didn't have the communication tools she needed to assert herself into the polarizing dynamics and circumstances of her family. But I don't believe that now.

Because I spent an entire day reading the secret inner workings of her mind and heart.

"Yes, you do," I speak the words with a gentle conviction that gets her attention.

As the Ferris wheel begins its descent back down, she swipes her hair back and narrows her eyes at me. "I'm not up for a therapy session tonight."

"I'm not the therapist here. You are." I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone, and tap on the screen until a title page for The Sisters of Birch Grove appears. "You know exactly what to do with your family. You wrote it all in your book."

She looks from the screen to me. Twice. "That's fiction, Micah."

"And yet it's real, too." I hold up the phone, her words shinning as bright as the stars above us. "These words are inspired, Raegan. In that last scene with the sisters—after all they went through in those hard years—you wrote what living in truth is supposed to look like." I tick them off one by one. "You spoke of establishing healthy boundaries, of open communication, of keeping short accounts, of setting honest and appropriate expectations, of having hard conversations with the hope of reconciliation."

"The truth is already out," she pushes back, her tone desperate, "and now we're more fractured than ever."

"That's hardly the only truth you've been holding back."

She flinches at my statement. "You've known me for two weeks."

"Yes, but I'm an observer. The same as you."

"Fine." She crosses her arms. "Tell me what you think I've been holding back."

I take a breath and allow her to do the same. And then, I tell her the truth she's asked for even if she doesn't want it. "You cower around Adele as if you have no stake or voice inside your own family. And you practically shape-shift in order to placate Hattie, and you treat your mother as if she's a child in need of validation and guidance when it's actually the other way around. You've taken on the role of peacekeeper in your family, and yet I'm thoroughly convinced that none of you actually has much peace at all. Especially you."

She falls back against her seat, swinging our car as we rock above the shadowy outlines of bluffs and canyons. But she says nothing.

"Peace isn't passive, Raegan. It's proactive. The way I see it, you've been a passive character in your own story for far too long."

"That's not fair."

"I agree, it's not fair." I tap my phone screen and illuminate her book in my palm again. "Because God doesn't give us talents He doesn't intend for us to use with Him and for Him. You reminded me of the same just three days ago in the Ruby Mountains. You're a writer, and yet you've spent far more energy wishing you could hide behind a pen name than realizing that you are exactly who God intended you to be. He not only knew your name and the family you were going to be born into, but all the atypical logistics in between. And even still, He saw fit to give you a storyteller's imagination." I pause and wait till she meets my gaze. "Freedom and peace work in tandem. And you won't experience either until you're finally willing to be transparent with yourself and others."

She turns her face away from me, but not before I catch the glint of tears on her cheeks. We remain in silence for the rest of the ride down, and by the time the attendant unlocks our safety bar and opens the door for us, the conga line has moved on.

As I walk Raegan back to Old Goldie, she tracks each location of her family members on her app. Hattie is the only one aboard the bus; the others appear to be staying in Luella's trailer. As much as I want to shoulder her pain and ease the burden she carries, I'd be doing her no favors to remove it completely. Raegan has avoided the hard truths for so long that her only real option now is to face them head-on.

I spot the VIP tent in the middle of our lot, where I'll likely be facing my own hard truths very soon.

"You're not coming inside?" Raegan asks.

"Not quite yet." I step in to brush a kiss on her cheek. "I think you and Hattie could use some privacy tonight." I can see the protest in her eyes, but she says nothing. Perhaps she knows what I do: that some battles need to be fought alone. "Don't wait up."

My eyes focus on the back of my target as I cross the dusty lot to a bar that will likely remain open until the last VIP has decided to call it a night. In this case, Troy Rigger. It's such a sad cliché that the same obnoxiously loud man I observed in this tent after the concert—the one surrounded by newbies looking for validation—is now here alone, staring into the half-drunk glass of a dirty martini.

The arrogant way he taps the bar to ask for another from the unlucky barkeep on duty speaks of a man who has rarely been told no. And given the long list of A-list artists he's signed over the years—including Luella and my mother—he hasn't. The fist in my gut clenches hard as I stand outside the opening, roll my shoulders back, and exhale a prayer for a kind of help I can't even name but also know I need.

When I take the stool at the end of the short bar, I don't make eye contact with him. Instead, I order a drink and wait. The worst thing I can do is appear desperate for his company. The only thing more promising to start up a conversation than flattery is curiosity. And seeing as he mentioned how much he enjoys the hard-to-get types, perhaps this will be my angle, too. I keep my eyes straight ahead on the plastic window, avoiding the distraction of a cell phone or small talk with the barkeep. I just sip on my gin and tonic and feel the burn all the way down to my gut.

Not thirty seconds later, Troy bites.

"First time at Watershed?" he asks.

Slowly, I slip out of my self-induced coma and look at him as if I've just noticed there was another human being here. "Oh, uh, yeah. You too?"

He frowns like he doesn't quite know if he should take offense to that or not. Good. "I've been taking artists here every year since it started." He holds out his hand to me, and I oblige him. "Troy Rigger."

"Oh, are you a bus driver, then?" I ask without any of the irony I feel.

He blinks. "No. I own a recording label in Nashville. Rigger Records."

I nod as if that might ring a bell, then turn back to my drink.

"What do you do?"

"Therapist," I say. "Here with some clients."

"A traveling shrink, really?" He sounds genuinely surprised and leans in. "Anybody I know?"

"Probably." I take another sip of my drink, wishing I could have ordered a tonic minus the gin, and shrug. "Confidentiality."

"Of course." He bobs his head as if he's the picture of integrity. Doubtful. "After all my time in the industry, I could be an honorary therapist." He barks a laugh, and I offer him the tiniest smile in return. It's all he needs. "I have more dirt on most of these headliners than they have in their gardens." He points at the tent wall to indicate the tour buses and trailers on the other side of it. "I'm a steel trap, though. If there's one thing I've learned, it's how interconnected everyone is in this industry. I swear, that whole six degrees of separation statistic doesn't apply to musicians in Nashville. Everybody is related to somebody."

Every thought in my head empties to make room for a series of new ones I don't want to accept.

I force myself to rotate in my stool just enough for him to feel validated by my hard-won approval and so I can look him in the eye. It's quite possibly the most difficult eye contact I've ever made. Because I see it. Even without a proper DNA test. I have his eye shape and his nose and even the widow's peak my brother always teased me about growing up.

Turns out, it's hereditary.

"Do you live in Nashville?" I ask.

He tips his head and grins with pride. "Born and raised."

"Is there a family waiting for you back home?"

It's the first time he's hesitated, and I wonder if it's because he's trying to find the right answer, the one that will impress me. Only, that's impossible.

"Bachelor." He forces another harsh chuckle and lifts his glass to tap mine. "By choice," he adds. "You?"

"Currently, but I hope that's not the case for long." Raegan wrapped in my hoodie before she climbed the bus steps is the most welcome image in my mind.

"May I give the therapist some free advice?"

"Please do."

"Women bring more problems than they're worth." He tips back the end of his martini, then sucks off the olive to bite on the toothpick. "Especially in my industry."

"You never married?" I ask, as if he's the most interesting person I've come across.

"Could have, maybe even thought about it once or twice, but ultimately, I've always been more of a test driver than a car owner, if you get my drift." His smile is repulsive. "When I was your age, the only days my bed wasn't warmed by a woman of my choosing was when I agreed to go to her place."

It takes everything in me to look impressed by this abhorrent brag. "Maybe it's the line of work I'm in," I start, "but I can rarely find time to take a woman out to dinner."

He leans in close and examines my face. "You're a sharp-looking guy. Stop worrying about dinner dates and start asking yourself what you can provide that nobody else can." At my look of confusion, he breaks it down for me. "For me, it was often women who were decent singers who needed some insider tips. Vocal coaching recs, exclusive invites to private clubs, extra hours in the recording studio, even a little chemical pick-me-up from time to time, if you know what I mean."

"What? Like drugs?" The question comes out like a reflex I can't control.

"It was no big deal back in the day." He shrugs. "Uppers were easy to snag. Every chick I knew was on a little speed to keep skinny. You know how it is with women. Times haven't changed too much, really."

Rage flashes hot in my periphery, and it takes every shred of willpower to keep a rein on my impulses as the realization sets in. This man supplied my mother with black-market diet pills for twenty years. Twenty years that caused irreversible damage to her kidneys. Kidneys that were too far gone to be saved by the time she entered into renal failure six months before she died.

Troy spits his toothpicks onto the bar napkin in front of him and claps me on the arm as he pushes away from the bar. "Figure out what you can offer a woman, and you'll enjoy all the perks of a relationship without the hassle of being tied down."

I force myself not to go after him, to stay seated and count to a hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. All the while, I can't erase the mental image of my mother as an innocent young woman starting out in this industry. The same way Cheyenne Farrow is doing now. Why hadn't someone warned her about men like Troy? She needed a father in her life.

Only, my mother's father was a monster.

And as it turns out, so is mine.