“I have to ask, Mr. Vaughn, if you have any idea why someone might want to break in? An overzealous fan? Former lover?”
I bite back a grimace. “I haven’t been in this house in six months, man. And now you are telling me someone broke in on the day I was due back? I don’t know why someone would do that.”
“Who knows your schedule?”
I laugh. “The world? The tour dates are public. Not hard to imagine I would be heading here afterward. There were approximately a million pictures of me taken around LA today. At least two interviews that were live where I talked about just getting off the road.”
I am beyond frustrated, so I walk away from any further questions before I get too snippy. All I wanted was to fall asleep on a bed that wasn’t moving tonight, and instead I am walking into a house that feels more like a crime scene than anyone’s home.
Doesn’t feel likemyhome, and I wonder if it even would have without the police here. I don’t even remember what my own bed sheets look like.
The exhaustion that has been following me for the last few months is just over my shoulder, hovering like a cloud. One foot in front of the other, I remind myself. I was so close to rest, and now this. I take a deep breath and remember that a break is coming in hours, not months or days anymore.
“Nothing is out of place,” I say, looking around the kitchen and living room area. The house isn’t huge. A large master suite. Three bedrooms in total. A studio for music that was what sealed the deal on me buying the place years ago. It was the first major purchase I made after my initial success.
I continue to walk around.
“Anything?”
I shake my head at the officer.
“I haven’t been here in over six months, like I said. But the expensive stuff would be in the studio.” I gesture with my hand and they lead the way down the hall.
I look around. There is some top-of-the-line equipment in here, if someone knew what they were looking at, a few instruments I play around with. Instruments have always come easily to me, so I like to experiment. And they all end up in this room.
“The shelf.” I gesture, walking over to a large wall that has a comfortable sofa and chairs set under it. Always good for a jam session or to show new work to the band that travels with me.
The shelves over the space hold all my awards.People’s Choice.Grammy’s.MTV.Nickelodeon. All of them. Even theKids’ Choicesurfboard in the corner.
“What’s missing?” the gruff uniformed guy asks.
“MyBillboard Music AwardforMidnight Blue.”
The gruff guy’s voice and face softens. “That’s a great song, man.”
I nod stiffly in his direction. “My first big award. Top Streaming Song.”
I co-wrote that song with Baylor. Back when we would text each other lyrics of this song we knew would be a hit.
I feel a smile at the memories of that. How Baylor and I would move through campus and classes and life but at the same time would be completely wrapped up in a song, swapping lyrics back and forth.
Baylor and I had just started playing with the concept of what becameMidnight Bluewhen the label came calling and everything changed. I was able to leverage it even in the beginning. The fact that I could perform and create made me marketable. Lately, I have been too wrung out to even string two words together. Performing has left little for any of my own songwriting.
Absently, my hand runs over the missing space. Due to the housekeeping staff, there is no tell-tale dust showing where something is missing. If it wasn’t for the empty space, no one would know.
Losing that one award to someone coming into my house matters. For the first time since Caleb told me what we were walking into, for the first time in this cluster fuck of a night, I feel violated.
That award had a special place in my heart. It was the proof that Baylor and I could work together, could remain close. And when we didn’t it was still a bittersweet reminder that our failure to be close was one of choice.
The officer and the detective are conferring, and I turn to Caleb when he puts his hand on my shoulder in one of his comfort-gestures.
“There is nothing in this house someone could have taken that would mean more to me than that award. Now, who the hell knows that?” I whisper, and Caleb’s forehead creases with worry.
“You think this is personal?”
There are two awards. We both received one when we won because we were billed as co-writers of the song. And for that one, more than any other, we truly were. It was as fifty-fifty as I can imagine anyone could be when writing a song with another person.
“Can’t be,” I tell him. “No one knows me that well other than you and Nix.”
