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.
SKY 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.
