“Our song?” I echo hotly. I’ve heard those words before, excuses not to cut me in on royalties for the words I helped write, the choruses and bridges I gave away.
“We’ve been writing it together.” Andrew’s voice is gentle, like he’s sorry I misunderstood.
He lifts the mic from the floor and turns to the crowd. When he speaks, it’s still in that achingly calm voice. “Sorry, folks, my friend here is having a tough time. She needs to get back to Rush’s Recovery.”
Phones are being whipped out. For a moment, I think they’re calling for help, but then I see the way the bar’s patrons are holding their screens. They’re recording.
No one tells you how strange it is to be famous, how disorienting it is when strangers think they know you, when they believe the lies told by people who’ve never met you more readily than the words coming out of your own mouth.
This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go.
“Why don’t we head backstage?” Andrew says to me. Slowly, like he thinks I might pounce if he moves too quickly, he bends to place the mic on the floor, but his other hand snakes up to grab my wrist lightning fast. He smiles at the crowd, but his grip is a vise as he pulls me off the stage.
Backstage turns out to be a storeroom: boxes of napkins and empty glasses, a bare lightbulb overhead. It smells sour, like spilled beer. My Doc Martens stick to the floor.
“?‘Imposter Syndrome’ ismysong,” I hiss.
“That’s not how I see it.” Andrew’s eyes are every bit as unblinking as Evelyn’s. I wonder if he learned that from her, part of his training after she hired him.
Maybe someone else would try to reason with him, explain that he didn’t write a word, pull out her notebook with the lyrics in her handwriting, no one else’s. But my tether—short under the best of circumstances—has snapped.
“Just try to pass it off as yours, Andrew. Once I’m out of here, I’ll release a statement—”
“If you come out swinging, it’ll only make you look worse.” God, I hate how calm he sounds. “They all know you’re in rehab for anger issues, an addict who can’t control herself.”
Fucking Callie.
“Do you even know what you’re doing here?” Andrew’s voice shifts, an edge taking hold.
“I came to singmysong,” I begin, but Andrew’s laughter cuts me off.
“I don’t mean at the Shelter Shack.” He speaks slowly like he thinks I’m stupid. “I mean at Rush’s Recovery. Your manager cut a deal with Evelyn. Everyone on the staff knows all about it.”
My stomach twists.
“Evelyn needed a high-profile client to boost her reputation.”
“Aren’t places like this supposed to be anonymous?”
Even the regular rehabs I went to before—they never told anyone I was there. And AA meetings, where anyone could come—no one tipped off the paparazzi, no one leaked a story to the press.There’s honor among thieves,my sponsor said, but now I’m facing a real thief, and there’s no honor to be found.
“Callie promised Evelyn she’d leak a story to the press about how Rush’s Recovery turned rock’s ‘baddest bad girl’ nice.” He uses air quotes, like he’s never heard anything so ridiculous. “Callie issuing that apology on your behalf—that was just another step in their plan.”
Theirplan? “What about doctor-patient confidentiality?” I know I’m grasping at straws.
Andrew laughs. “You have to understand the condition Evelyn’s in these days. See, she and her husband dreamed up Rush’s Recovery together, sold it to their investors—individualized, privileged rehab. But then the old man cheated, and their joint venture turned into a weapon in their divorce. Evelyn needs the investors to pick her to run it, not him.”
“How do you know all that?”
“You were so eager for my intel a few days ago. Practically begged me to dig up dirt on Evelyn. What’s the matter? You don’t like the dirt now that it’s getting you messy, too?”
I shake my head, trying to make sense of everything Andrew is saying.
“Evelyn reached out to Callie after you attacked Joni Jewell,” Andrew explains, his voice smooth as silk. “She didn’t have to promise much to get Callie to turn on you. It’s not as though you’ve been making her a ton of money lately.”
Callie said this place wasthe best care money could buy. She had me saying it, too. She convinced my mom and my kid it was different, the answer to their prayers. They were fucking smiling when they sent me away, like they thought I’d come back a new person.
“You’re just some poor little rich girl.” Andrew’s voice shifts again, mocking me as he whines:“Boo-hoo my daughter hates me, my mom is mean to me.”
