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enough for a couch and a small easy chair, an entertainment wall with surround-sound, and a baby grand piano in the corner. She’d sunk more money into the piano and entertainment system than she had in all her furniture combined, since hearing her songs at their best was a priority.
    She hurried through the kitchen and down the hall. She’d converted her extra bedroom into a music room, where she had an electric keyboard, a desktop computer, and several guitars. Though the room was full, there were no hiding places. She looked in the open closet in which she’d wedged a desk and shelves. Nothing had changed.
    Her bedroom looked the way she had left it. Her bed was high off the floor, and nothing hunkered beneath. She breathed a sigh of relief.
    Then it hit her that it might not be wise to let people know she was home. Even though her car sat in the carport for anyone with a flashlight to see, she worried that the media might come knocking, hoping to clear up the confusion. Better if the lights were out. She went back through the house, turning out all the lights, then felt her way back to her bedroom.
    She lay back on the bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. This was ridiculous. She had things to do. She couldn’t allow herself to be made a prisoner in her own home. And anyway, this couldn’t be about her. She wasn’t important enough at Colgate Studios for anyone to want dead.
    She forced her thoughts away from herself to Brenna’s parents. She prayed for them, imagining their anguish.
    After a while, she heard a car coming up the street, saw headlights turning across her curtains. She sat up. Someone was pulling into her driveway.
    She slid off the bed and went to the window, peered out through the curtains. Thankfully, it was Gibson’s Bonneville. She watched as he turned his lights off and got out, slamming the door with no regard for the neighbors who had probably gone to bed long ago, oblivious that their neighbor had been pronounced dead. He ambled up the driveway as if nothing had happened tonight.
    She flipped on her bedroom light and hurried through the house to the kitchen. She met him as he came in the door from the carport. “Did you talk to her parents?”
    Her brother shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the arm of her couch. “Yeah. They were in shock. Her mother was a wreck. Really sad.”
    “Did they know why Brenna was at Colgate tonight?”
    “No. They thought she was studying. She had a test coming up. Hey, did you know that her mother is Tiffany Teniere?”
    Parker’s jaw dropped. Tiffany Teniere was a Christian star as big as Amy Grant. She’d been riding the Christian charts for over twenty years. “Why wouldn’t Brenna tell me a thing like that?”
    “You know how teenagers are about their parents.”
    “Yeah, but that’s relevant. We’re in the music business.” She caught her breath when it hit her who Brenna’s father was. TiffanyTeniere was married to Nathan Evans, who owned a couple of major labels. A star-maker, he had taken several unknown artists and catapulted them to fame. “Okay, now I’m really confused. Why would Brenna work for Colgate as an unpaid intern when she could have gotten all the experience she could ever want working in her father’s record company?”
    “Good question.”
    Parker frowned and tried to remember her first conversation with the girl. “When she called about applying for our internship, she said she was a Music Business major and just wanted a chance to learn.”
    “Maybe she just wanted to get to know the people who recorded there.” Gibson went to her refrigerator and stared inside.
    “Yeah, maybe.”
    “Maybe her dad is one of those tycoons who makes his children come up through the ranks.”
    “Still, why wouldn’t she mention it?”
    “Probably thought it would be a distraction. Maybe she wanted you guys to know her for herself and not for her famous parents.”
    Yes, Parker supposed that made sense. “So, are they