“No, unfortunately.”
She nodded grimly. “I hope we hear something soon. It’s a terrible thing. Just terrible. I’m really fond of her. She’s…she’s just…”
“An amazing woman,” he finished. “I agree.”
“Yeah.” Her expression went from pensive to serious. “So, uh, the two recording studios are booked. The graveyard shift said both Six-Ninths and Chantal have been here all night. Um… They might’ve gone dark while they’re recording.”
Ronan went still. “They haven’t heard about Ireland?”
“I’m really not sure. I overheard Darrin Rumsfeld and Brett Kline talking when they went out for coffee earlier, and Brett was complaining that the senior Mr. Vidal isn’t here producing. Or returning calls.”
“Merde,” he muttered.
“’scuse me?” Eady asked, frowning.
“Nothing. I’ll run by the studios and talk to them.”
She nodded. Ronan turned on his heel and headed to the elevator, then decided he was too restless to wait. He climbed the single flight up to the second floor on foot.
Talking about Ireland, especially her kidnapping, was more and more difficult to do. Discussing it meant thinking about it and imagining what she might be going through.
When Ronan exited the stairwell, it was to utter silence. The soundproofing and acoustics were top-tier. Chris Vidal Sr. had taken out a sizeable loan to overhaul the once aging recording studios, bringing them up to the cutting edge. Ronan had financed that loan after years of exerting financial pressure on the record label to keep it in the red. He’d known Vidal would default and that he would then have the company on the chopping block.
Both of the studios had their exterior recording lights on. He walked over to the nearest one and peeked through the door’s inset glass, seeing the petite blonde pop star who’d been in the upper-floor offices earlier in the week. Dressed in tiny shorts and an even smaller top that was more like a strip of bandage across her breasts, she held both hands to her headphones as she sang passionately into the mic.
He moved on to the second studio’s control room on the opposite side of the hallway and stepped quietly inside. The sound engineer had his hands at the ready as the drummer counted in with four quick raps of his drumsticks. As the song began, Ronan stayed by the door and listened. The rhythm washed over him first, the tempo resonating in his blood, then the story of the verses began to form. The lyrics moved him, stirring the unruly emotions he was keeping barely in check.
Midway through the song, the lead singer saw him through the glass and extended a tattooed arm with his index finger pointed—much like someone commanding a dog to stay. Ronan’s wry amusement at the gesture helped him find some composure, although it took a hard swallow past a lump in his throat to fully regain his poise.
When the song ended, Brett Kline exited the studio and stepped out to the hallway. Ronan joined him, studying the man with interest.
It was widely known that Kline had once dated Gideon Cross’s wife because he’d written an intimate, sexual ballad about their time together. Ronan found it very interesting that out of all the record labels Six-Ninths could’ve signed with, they chose Vidal while it was still partially owned and managed by Cross. The two men couldn’t be more different, which made him curious about Eva Cross.
“Hey,” Kline said, scowling. His spiky hair was darker at the roots and bleached platinum at the tips. His green eyes were narrowed dangerously. “This is a private recording session, and I don’t know you.”
Ronan extended his hand. “Ronan McCaffrey. I co-own this label with Ireland Vidal.”
One of Kline’s brows lifted. “Oh, yeah? Since when?”
“Monday.” Pulling out his wallet, he handed over his Vidal business card.
Kline read it, then shoved it into his jeans’ back pocket. “Congratulations. Did you come to tell us why Chris isn’t here? He promised Robby—our manager—that he’d be producing this song himself.”
There was no way to ease into the topic, so Ronan tackled it directly. “Ireland was kidnapped Friday night. She hasn’t been returned yet.”
“What?” Kline stared at him blankly. “What the fuck?”
“It’s all over the news.” His words were flat and heavy. Every time he had to speak of Ireland’s ordeal, it drained him. He felt the fatigue of his worry in every muscle in his body.
Without another word, Kline returned to the studio. Ronan followed, watching as Kline dug into a messenger bag for a tablet and powered it on.
The rest of the band looked between the two of them. The drummer, an average-sized guy with blue eyes so thickly lashed they looked almost lined, and the bassist, who had a spectacular head of long copper curls, had moved to the black leather sofa. The lead guitarist, who was basketball player-sized, was drinking a beer by the refrigerator. Ronan went around and introduced himself to all.
“Guys,” Kline said for attention, as he passed his tablet to Darrin Rumsfeld, the band’s drummer. Then he looked at Ronan. “How does something like that happen with a shit ton of people around? No one manned up and helped her?”
Reading the screen of the tablet, Rumsfeld’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “No fucking way. Not Irie.” He looked at Ronan. “We’ve known her since she was a kid. We’ve watched her grow up.”
It was too much for Ronan to listen to them reminisce about Ireland, because there was inevitably a thread of loss. There was simply no way to ignore either one of the two possible outcomes.
