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of it. It still hurt to move it; tears still sprang to her eyes when someone bumped it.
    â€œThere’s no such thing as too concerned. I think Brody Wickham is the real deal. I saw him watching you all day—I’m telling you, if you had slipped from that swing, he has arms that could catch you.”
    â€œI think he’s just as likely to let me hit the ground.”
    â€œHe’d take a bullet for you. I can see it in his eyes.”
    Perfect. Just what she wanted—another person dying because of her.
    Okay, yes, maybe she couldn’t dislodge him from her brain—especially that smug expression as he tried to catch a glimpse at her phone.
    Good thing she’d deleted the text. See, a person shouldn’t save text messages on their phones—not in the new age of spy games.
    No, she’d just have to keep his attention diverted while she played out her extracurricular activities.
    â€œI thought rehearsals went okay today, didn’t you?” She peered in the mirror at her bloodshot eyes, a few gathering wrinkles around her mouth. Okay, she shouldn’t be quite so hard on herself. With the right makeup, she could turn the head of a photographer. At least as Vonya.
    â€œI think you’re brilliant. I love the swing song.”
    She thought it was one of her cheesier pieces, but the crowds loved it. And Vonya vamped it up well, although it was one of the few songs that felt most like one Ronie might sing. All the same, it didn’t matter what persona she played onstage, as long as it opened doors. As Vonya she’d held a concert for the troops overseas, she’d raised money for UNICEF, she’d visited the refugee camps in Africa…
    All, of course, Tommy used for the good of her career. She used it for the good of her heart.
    And in Zimbala, she’d met Kafara Nimba, a nine-year-old orphaned boy who had captured her heart.
    This trip, she’d bring him home.
    â€œIs it okay if I take off? I left the Thai food on the counter. And Tommy said he’d be by later to check on you and go over the itinerary.”
    Ronie cinched the towel around her and opened the door. “Are you picking up Lyle or am I?”
    â€œI’ll go—we’ll meet you at the airport on Saturday morning. Listen, you’re all packed, you just need to get yourself there on time. No more holding the plane while you run through security.”
    â€œThey didn’t believe I was Vonya—what could I do?”
    â€œThat’s your fault for traveling as yourself.”
    Yeah, see, no one recognized her when she simply played…herself. Not even her, anymore.
    Leah hadn’t moved from the door, and Ronie stilled. She closed her eyes when Leah said softly, “I’ll be praying for you. For the record, I think you’re doing the right thing.”
    Her feet clicked on the cork floor down the hallway. Ronie pressed her hand to the foggy mirror and pulled it away, watching her handprint. The right thing.
    Yes, eventually it would be.
    A half hour later, her face scrubbed clean, wearing her green Hulk pajama pants and an oversize Harvard sweatshirt, she found the Thai food in the kitchen in the middle of an otherwise empty countertop.
    The entire apartment on the top floor of her buildingin SoHo reflected Vonya’s eccentric style, thanks to Tommy D’s vision for who she should be—at least for the various magazines that wanted an “insider look” into her life. The past year and a half, she’d risen in popularity so much she barely recognized the woman who just loved to write songs in the quiet of her room. From the S-shaped workspace suspended on cables in the middle of the kitchen, to folding Japanese screens that separated the spaces, to the two-story windows overlooking the skyscape of New York, the place exuded the artistic, eccentric flare of Vonya.
    The only room Ronie claimed for herself—and she’d practically had to