CHAPTER1
Ian’s overnight flight from Washington landed in Los Angeles forty-five minutes early, just in time for him to watch the pale wash of a new dawn. The same travel agent who had been handling him for years had arranged this particular trip. Which had been hugely embarrassing for them both. Flying economy. Selecting the airline and flying overnight because of the cost. Ditto for the rental car. Thankfully, no explanation had been necessary. News of Ian’s recent scandals had made almost daily headlines in the local Annapolis papers. Frozen accounts. Federalist townhome going up for auction. Bankruptcy. When he’d gone by to collect his tickets, the agent had actually said it was a good time to get out of town.
Ian had become accustomed to drinking his coffee black while recording his first album. The studio had kept artificial everything—sweetener, dry milk, the works. He had soon learned only newcomers took anything in their coffee. At four o’clock in the morning, with gallons of caffeine drunk during session after session of repetitive takes, it no longer mattered what anyone put in their mug or how long the pot had been stewing. All anyone wanted by that point was the jolt. The stronger the brew, the better. Six and a half years later, Ian still took it black.
Such memories struck him at the oddest times. Like now, as he stood by the terminal’s east-facing window, watching the sunrise and waiting for all his fellow passengers to grab their luggage and depart. He was fairly certain several had recognized him. Hurrying now meant running the risk of them taking selfies and, as had happened several times since the scandal broke, finding himself the latest and hottest image on Snapchat.
He took his time, drank a second cup, and waited until the sun was a completed golden globe. After all, there was no longer any reason to rush.
For the past several whirlwind years, free time had been a luxury. The first few days after his world fell apart, being liberated from his dawn-to-midnight schedule had left Ian weightless. Now, though, the hours clung like weights. Memories rose unbidden, drawing him back to the horrors that had shredded his world.
Just like now.
He remembered what it had felt like seven years earlier. The morning his former manager, his supposed friend, had called. Five fifteen, the world still dark, Ian nearly shattered with exhaustion after having just returned from concerts in Paris and Frankfurt, having flown back because he was scheduled to start rehearsals with the National Symphony Orchestra the next day. Just the same, thirty seconds after being awoken, he was dancing. Shouting into the phone, almost delirious with astonishment and joy. His album had been nominated for a Grammy. It had debuted at the top of the classical list. Number one.
Ian Hart. The classical guitarist the world had been waiting for. Handsome and gifted and possessing an almost magnetic draw. Captivating audiences wherever he went. A global star on the rise. On and on, the critics gushed. For years. Long enough for Ian to assume it was his forever.
Ian dumped his half-finished cup into the trash and started down the crowded hall. Off to begin his new life.
He was three days shy of his thirtieth birthday. Too young for the world to be carving his tombstone.
But still.
Ian collected the rental car’s keys, signed the papers, and ignored the stares that followed him. The Kia had a weary four-cylinder engine and almost fifty thousand miles on the odometer. The interior smelled of old ashes and sweat, which was hardly a surprise, since the air conditioner was not up to the morning’s heat. The motor moaned and coughed as he entered the freeway traffic and aimed north.
There were few things that could have forced Ian to emerge into the public eye and endure a cross-country trip. But news of his aunt’s passage had come as a terrible shock. When the San Luis Obispo attorney had called and requested he fly out, Ian had instantly agreed.
From his early childhood, Amelia had played the role of loving older sister. She had brought rays of hope and a promise of better tomorrows into an era that was almost as dark and dismal as Ian’s present. After his own parents had vanished from the scene, Ian had been raised by his paternal grandparents. Sort of. Ian’s grandfather had considered Amelia to be a “repository of bad habits”—his exact words. Ian’s grandmother had referred to her only daughter as “that wretched girl.” For his tenth birthday, Amelia had tried to have herself named Ian’s guardian. After Amelia lost what became a vicious court battle, Ian had been ordered never to mention the woman again.
They had, of course, remained secretly in touch. That had become much easier once Ian’s star began to rise and he gained the freedom that came with money in the bank. Then Amelia’s partner succumbed to leukemia, but not before they ran through almost all their joint savings in treating the illness. Six weeks after the funeral, Amelia sold their Baltimore home and moved to California. “Your star is on the rise,” she told Ian when he drove her to the airport. “You won’t have time to miss me.”
“But why California? It’s the other end of the known universe.”
“That’s part of the appeal. We went there from time to time. I fell in love with a quiet coastal town called Miramar. You should visit.”
“I won’t have any choice, with you out there.” He knew he sounded disappointed, and couldn’t help it.
“Everyone needs a harbor at midnight,” she said. “This is mine.”
When Ian asked what she meant by that, Amelia’s only response was that she hoped he wouldn’t need to understand for years yet. By then they were standing outside the departure gate, and she begged him to come visit. But life and success got in the way, and Ian never did. Not even when he had gigs in LA. By that point, his schedule no longer permitted side trips. Or so he claimed when they met.
Amelia never revealed her failing health. She simply continued as she had all his life. Being there for him. Just like now. He learned of her death only when the mysterious California attorney called to say he needed to come out for the reading of Amelia’s will.
* * *
Just past the first Santa Barbara exit, northbound traffic on the 101 came to a complete halt. Southbound vehicles continued to thunder past. Ian followed the example of other travelers: he cut off the motor, rose from his Kia, stretched, and stood in the late afternoon heat.
He waited there for almost three hours. Long enough for exhaustion to set in. And hunger. He had been skipping meals, dining instead on worry and fears. By the time the traffic started moving again, the sunset was a faint smudge on the western ridges. Ian pushed on as far as he could, but finally admitted defeat. He took the exit for a town he had never heard of before. He avoided the Residence Inn close to the interstate and selected a strip motel that had seen better days. The manager accepted his cash payment without comment and pointed him to a diner a block farther down the street.
He took a stool at the counter and accepted the waitress’s suggestion of the daily special, meat loaf. The food was hot; the serving overlarge. He walked back to the motel, showered, and slipped into bed. The walls were paper thin, which forced him to listen as two men and a woman in the next room shouted and argued in a language he did not recognize. But not even the woman’s shrill voice could hold him back from falling asleep.
When he woke at two in the morning, Ian knew a moment’s panic. Then he remembered the flight, the drive, the motel. His mattress had grown a lump just under his left ribs. Ian pulled the covers onto the floor and settled down once more. The darkness became crowded with terrors he could scarcely name. Going broke. Being saddled with a mountain of unpaid bills. Losing his career.
And the worst fear of all. Not caring if he ever played again.
Despite the conditions, Ian slept as well as he had since disaster struck. He woke the next morning surprisingly refreshed. He entered the lobby and paused at the sight. The adjoining breakfast room was jammed, almost every table taken. The diners all appeared to share the same surly, sullen expression. Heavy and unkempt and hungover and rough. Ian was tempted to turn away. But he was hungry, and the food was free. He loaded a plate with breakfast burritos, poured a coffee from the urn, ate hurriedly, and returned to his room. He took another shower, then carried his cases to the Kia—one suitcase of clothes and two carbon-fiber travel cases for what had formerly been his favorite guitars.
Ian then returned to the lobby. The manager had the calm manner of someone who had seen it all and found much of it hilarious. “Did you have a nice stay?”
