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if it is …”
    â€œI know. If it is, my father sent a killer to us. And somewhere out there, my father’s still alive. Maybe he’ll try it again.”
    â€œDid you tell your mom?”
    â€œNo. First, there wasn’t time. She had to perform, and then right after that, this happened. I was going to when we got the chance, but I can’t now. It would so upset her, and she’s got enough to deal with.”
    â€œThe police need to hear this.”
    â€œI know. But how can I tell them without telling Mom?”
    â€œMaybe you could tell Ross.”
    I rubbed a hand over my face. “Yeah, I guess. But that would feel so … I don’t know, like having our privacy invaded. I mean, Mom never talks about my father, even to me.”
    â€œYou don’t know how much Ross knows. Maybe your mom’s told him everything.”
    â€œNo. She wouldn’t. She’s just too private about it. Besides, Ross is business. This is personal.”
    We fell silent. My head buzzed with exhaustion. Another few minutes and I wouldn’t be able to think at all.
    I glanced at the clock. After two a.m.
    â€œBrittany, I don’t know if I can stay awake much longer.”
    â€œYeah, me either. We barely got any sleep last night.”
    â€œAnd I don’t know how much I’ll get tonight. Probably as long as Mom’s medication keeps her asleep. When she wakes up, she’ll be hurting.”
    â€œPoor Rayne.”
    We both sighed.
    â€œI’ll call you in the morning, okay, Brittany?”
    â€œOkay. Good night.”
    We clicked off.
    I turned my head toward Mom—and got a shock. Her eyes were open and troubled, her head turned toward me. Lines crisscrossed her forehead.
    â€œMom?” I shoved myself into a sitting position. “You’re awake already?”
    â€œYou know how I am with pain medication.” Her voice was weak. “Takes a lot … to knock me out for long.”
    â€œBut—how long have you … ?”
    â€œLong enough to hear what you didn’t want to tell me.”

8
    H e stared at the TV in his cheap motel room, anger churning in his veins.
    Just that afternoon he’d stepped out of jail a free man for the first time in eight years. Man, the feeling! Sun on his skin, fresh air. He could go where he wanted, eat what he wanted. Sleep in a real bed.
    Sizzling with anticipation, he caught a bus for the short trip into Phoenix.
    At midnight he sank down on the edge of the bed, shoes off, tired to the bone. He flipped on the TV—and saw Rayne O’Connor screaming at a photographer.
    Three times, the cable news channel played footage of the scene.
    â€œRayne O’Connor is now in Denver’s St. Joseph’s Hospital, reportedly with multiple cracked ribs,” a perky blonde news anchor said. “She is expected to have a full, though long, recovery. This on the very same night that Rayne’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Shaley, was taken hostage by Jerry Brand, a man hired to drive one of the rock band’s buses. Brand is the alleged killer of two men on tour—Tom Hutchens, hair stylist and makeup artist, and bodyguard Bruce Stolz. Police fatally shot Brand during the rescue of Shaley O’Connor …”
    His mouth had fallen open. His fingers clenched the TV remote.
    Now here he sat, jaw hardened to granite, a buzz in his head.
    The police had to be lying.
    But the last few times he’d tried to call Jerry to check in, Jerry hadn’t answered his cell phone. Had the man been avoiding him on purpose?
    Now Jerry was dead.
    â€œâ€¦ no official word yet on the Rayne tour, which is scheduled to continue for another month.” The reporter’s voice pierced his consciousness. “But given the popular singer’s injuries, it is expected to be cancelled. And now to—”
    He switched the channel, seeking other cable news stations. Once again, Rayne’s face filled