And while it broke Skylar’s heart to see her beloved grandfather die, she was almost grateful after another six years had passed because he didn’t have to witness what happened.
Because then, she lost her beloved father...
His father would have been devastated by the way it all happened.
When she received the strange call seven years after his death, she was reminded. And she was as angry as she had been devastated and determined that she would find out what had really happened, and she would clear his name for the ages.
Jake Ferguson had been an incredible man. A legend, a rock legend, and yet a wise man who had turned his life around and become an amazing human being as well. And he deserved to be remembered in all the best ways.
So...
Yes.
She would join Skyhawk for a special anniversary performance.
She would take her father’s place.
And maybe, just maybe, she could figure out what the hell had really happened.
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.
