“Tonight?”
“Trust me.”
She looks at me for a long second and then nods. “Okay.”
We park in the back and use the new lock. The guard at the door gives me a nod and goes back to his stool. Inside, the air is cooler than it was the day of the break-in. The cameras blink like small eyes. I check the feeds on my phone out of habit, and then I put the phone face down because the music requires both hands.
I boot the rig and switch on the small lamps. No overheads. This feels like work and also like a secret. I pull the ribbon mic to the vocal spot and set the pop filter a hand out. I know her range now.
“I don’t sing,” she says, standing at the edge of the tape like it’s a border crossing.
“I want you to whisper a harmony. Nothing fancy. Just air and pitch. I’ll keep it low in the mix. Nothing showy.”
She looks at the mic and then at me. “If I hate it, you delete it.”
“If you hate it, I’ll delete it.”
She steps in. I hand her headphones, one ear on, one ear off so she doesn’t feel trapped. I give her a little of my voice and a click so she has a floor. I tell her where the chorus lands and where I want the echo to touch and run away.
“Trust me.”
She catches my eye. “I do trust you, Houston.”
I roll, and she whispers the line and hits pitch on the first try like she was made for quiet. I stop and try not to grin. I roll again. She gives me a second pass with a tiny slide at the end that makes the chord lift. I ask for one more take on a different note so I can layer them. She does it. I stand very still so I don’t spook whatever is making this easy for her tonight.
“Was that okay?” she asks.
“Perfect.”
She laughs and covers her mouth with the back of her hand like she caught herself doing something reckless. I save the takes and back them up twice. I’m not losing anything tonight.
I pull the files into the session and build a small nest for them. I pan her first pass left, second pass right, low in the mix. I keep her breath visible and tuck the consonants. I pull my chorus down to make room and double my line one octave under with the thinnest guitar I can live with. I add a single tambourine hit on two to lift the second half without turning it into a trick.
I motion for her to join me. “Come listen.”
She stands behind my shoulder. I hit play. Her whisper is the missing hinge. She hears it and goes still. I don’t look at her because looking would make it about something else. I play it through and stop the cursor right past the fade.
“It’s a duet,” I explain. “It always was. I didn’t know until tonight.”
She swallows. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She goes quiet for a long time and then nods. “Okay.”
We bounce a mix and export two versions, one with vocals up for the room and one with vocals down for the car. I put them in the shared folder and send a text to Knox and Salem to meet us at the suite, in case they’re out too.
Back at the hotel we catch them in the living room. Knox has a notepad open. Salem is on the floor doing a stretch he pretends is about his back. We don’t talk. I press play instead.
Verse one. No one moves. Chorus one. Salem’s head tilts. The bridge. Knox uncrosses his arms, which is his version of standing up and cheering. Final chorus. I bring Lou’s whisper up one notch for the last four bars. The room gets very small and good.
When it ends, no one speaks first. Then Knox does. “That’s the single. No question. Quincy has to hear this.”
Salem points at Lou without looking away from the TV. “Of course it was missing something. It was missing her.”
Like we were.
I send the file to Quincy without a message, other than to listen asap. I don’t want to tell him what to hear. The read receipt pops a minute later, and then a text comes in:Holy hell. That’s a single.
