I grit my teeth. “No—the words fit.”
Jack was what finished her.
I never liked him, not even when he was the eager-faced new hire at the campus café asking me to show him the espresso machine. I could never explain it. Something in me simply recoiled from his wide smiles.
It’s why Nova’s ghost has haunted me. Deep down, I never trusted his version of Natalie’s death.
The pathetic story he spun—how he left her alone to chase a bit of press conference glory—was the perfect mix of vanity and self-pity to make me believe it.
It confirmed what I thought of him.
And it stopped me realising that what I thought of him was generous.
Rebecca fills the silence, “Lord, I wish I’d done more, looking back. I was worried, you know. Natalie was distraught. I told her she ought to speak to someone—even gave her the number of a therapist we send our stressed artists to. Hell, I even thought about calling you when Jack wouldn’t pick up his damn phone. I wish I had, now. It might have made all the difference if she’d spoken to you.”
My ears buzz with white noise, my despair weighing me down like lead. I’ve felt this before. It’s the ache of knowing I should have done more. But this time, it’s indisputable: Natalie’s death could have been prevented.
And Jack walked away the moment she stopped serving his ambitions, when care became inconvenient. It was his neglect, his selfishness, that drove her to the brink.
She was fragile, trying to save herself, yet he abandoned her.
The revelation carves into me, slowly, mercilessly, each slice cutting deeper until it hits the guilt that’s been festering and lets it escape. Jack caused her death, and nothing will ever convince me otherwise.
“You still there?” Rebecca asks.
I clear my throat. “Yes.”
Her tone becomes lighter, more business-like. “Funny thing, though. Looks like Jack’s finally landed on his feet. I heard he sent a few demos over to Hilary last week. She’s thrilled.”
My tone sharpens. “What do you mean?”
“He wrote some great songs, apparently. Some acoustic stuff, real singer-songwriter vibe. It’s a bit of a shift from his usual style.”
I struggle to keep my voice calm. “Did Hilary mention anything else?”
“Not really. He’s got a girl singing on a couple of tracks too. Says he’s been mentoring her. How ’bout that? Dustin’s nephew is finally turning over a new leaf.”
Dread creeps in. “Can you send me a song?”
“Ha. You think she showed it to me? She’s as protective as a pit bull. She’s still upset she hasn’t mastered the TikTok game—I’ve snatched a few good ones out from under her. She’s a bit old-fashioned, you know. Likes to ‘discover’ them on the street.” She laughs as if it’s absurd. “Anyway. Hilary thinks it’s Jack’s best work in years, but I’ll believe it when I hear it.”
We say goodbye, and I lower my phone.
A girl with a great voice, mentored by Jack. It doesn’t take a detective. But it’s not proof.
Lily-Anne appears in the garden. “Hey. Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. My voice sounds rough even to me. I turn to her. “This might sound like a strange question, but did Jack ever record your music? At rehearsals or gigs?”
Her brows knit. “No. Why? Should he have?”
“No. Never mind. I just wondered.”
She stares in concern. “Brandon, what’s going on?”
My phone buzzes. It’s a message from Rebecca, accompanied by a link.
Rebecca:Looks like he’s posted his stuff. Thought you’d want to see whatall the fuss is about.
