“He can’t play,” I said, then lowered my voice so only Freddie could hear. “Wejusttried this. Even if we get him to stop eating now, he still gets sick. He can’t go onstage unless you want him to vomit all over it and wreckyourshot.”
“Well, obviously I don’t want that,” Freddie said, his eyes going wide. ?“How are we supposed to play without a guitarist?”
“You play guitar,” I pointed out, wondering what the problem was.
He shook his head. “I playbass.”
“Isn’t that the same?” All three band member erupted in identical sounds of disbelief. “Well, they’re both guitars,” I said defensively.
“We need a guitar player,” Tristram/Doug insisted. “Or at least someone on keys. But you can’t have a band with just bass and drums.”
“I mean—Death from Above 1979 does,” Alfie pointed out. “And…Megachurch?”
Freddie shook his head. “I don’t think you’re helping your argument here.”
“Can’t you do it?” I asked Tristram/Doug.
“I play drums,” he said, and held up his sticks, like I might need a visual aid. “We need drums, too.”
“And Niall doesn’t playanything?” Not that I wanted to have to rely on Niall, but this was an emergency.
“Just mind games,” Alfie said grimly.
“Wait,” Freddie said, looking surprised. “That’s not on. He means well, Niall, it’s just…”
I shook my head. “He really doesn’t.”
Alfie pointed at me. “See, Cass gets it!” Then he frowned. “Wait—how exactly do you get it?”
I glanced at Freddie?—I was suddenly very aware of the other two band members watching us, leaning forward to hear every word. “Can we talk somewhere?” I asked, lowering my voice.
“What did you mean, Cass?” Freddie asked when we’d stepped into the hallway for some privacy. “About Niall?” His brow was furrowed as he looked down at me.
I took a deep breath before answering. It wasn’t that I was a100percent sure about this—but it was the only explanation that made sense, given everything that I’d seen. “It’s your allergic reaction.”
Freddie grimaced. “Right. When I get hives because of something I eat.”
“Not eat. Something youdrink. Niall gives you a bottle of water right before you go onstage. And I think he puts something in it—something to make you sick.”
“What?” Freddie blinked at me, then gave a stunned half laugh. “No. He couldn’t have.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” I glanced down the hallway toward the stagehands, but they all seemed much too immersed in their game to pay any attention to us. “He puts—I don’t know, cucumber or fruit or something in it. He knows about your allergy, right?”
“Well, yeah. But…”
“And you said the reaction happens pretty soon after you eat or drink something. Right?”
Freddie nodded, a little reluctantly. “Yes.”
“The last two times, I told you about your allergic reaction, and you promised not to eat anything. But right before it happens, you take a drink of your water bottle. The water bottleNiallgives to you.”
“Why would he do that? It makes no sense—”
“It’s your phone.” Freddie frowned and started patting his pockets, and I pointed to where he’d left it on the instrument case. “You leave it there, and he picks it up and sees the text from the manager confirming she’s coming.”
“But I still don’t think that he’d…”
“He got really upset, back when you just tell him,” I said. “You try and bring him Irn-Bru to make up for it.”
