“How long will the filming take?”
Ollie shrugged. “I don’t know, but whatever happens, we have to be back here by four. You’ve got some media shit to do in Derby tonight.”
Shay wondered how, despite being MIA for days, Ollie knew Shay’s schedule better than he did. Then he remembered he’d stopped paying attention to anything but the music. As ever, his brain danced away from the conversation and took him back to the show last night. After talking to Ollie about everything and nothing, he’d taken the set list back to the start—back to the days when the band had been nothing more than a flute and a drum kit. Track by track, he’d added layers to the show, culminating with a stomper they’d written on the road a few weeks ago that contained every instrument they’d had to hand. It was colour and chaos; it was the journey that brought them home.
And Shay had written the song with his gaze fixed on the back of Ollie’s head.
“Hey.” Ollie nudged him. “You want to go back to sleep for a while?”
Shay was tired enough from last night’s show to sleep for a week, but he could handle it. Could handle anything while Ollie was lying on top him the way he was right now. “I’m good. Have you got time for breakfast?”
Ollie grinned. “Always.”
* * *
“You broughtme to a graveyard?”
Ollie spun around, camera in hand. He seemed surprised, though Shay was right on time. “Well, technically, you brought yourself. But yeah. Here we are.”
“Should I be worried?”
“About what?”
“I don’t know.”
Ollie smiled a little and kissed Shay’s cheek. For a long moment it was just them, but then he pulled back and shifted into what Shay recognised as his work mode. “I’ve set the tripod up over there.” He pointed across to a far corner of the cemetery. “I’m going to go and fix the camera on it and set up the shot I want. When I signal, can you walk over?”
“Okay.” Shay thrust his hands into his pockets and tracked Ollie as he made his way through the headstones. He shivered. After weeks of libraries and museums, the maudlin setting was unnerving. He glanced at the nearest inscription—a woman who’d died decades ago, but the grave was smothered in fresh flowers and plants, as though she’d been buried yesterday.
“Shay.”
Dammit. Shay focused on Ollie. He’d missed the signal. Ollie shook his head and beckoned him over a second time, perhaps a third. Who the hell knew?
Shay followed the path through the cemetery until he came to the row where Ollie had set up the camera. The path faded there, and he had to step over graves to get to where Ollie was standing.
Another shot of nerves hit Shay hard. He stopped close to Ollie… close enough that their arms brushed. “Whose grave is this?”
“Take a look.”
Shay turned to the sparse grave and studied the headstone. Rudek Nowack, 1966-1998. That was it, no loving messages or prayers, but it wasn’t the brevity that caught Shay’s attention. It was the name. “Nowack,” he whispered. “That’s my name.”
Ollie squeezed Shay’s arm. “It is. And Rudek is a derivative of Rudolph.”
“So this is from the Danish side of the family? My mother’s?”
“Actually, no. That you have relatives on both sides with variations of the name is a coincidence.”
Shay read the name again.Rudek Nowack.Absorbed the dates, and gasped aloud. “He died in 1998. Who was he?”
Ollie’s grip on Shay tightened. “He was your father.”
* * *
“He wasyour father.”
Shay had passed out more times than he cared to remember, but the way the earth moved when Ollie uttered those words was nothing like that. He grabbed Ollie’s left arm, fingers digging in hard, forgetting to be mindful of Ollie’s scars. “My father?”
“Yes.”
