“In the video you said she was in danger. But you always have security. Even in the early days, before you were mega stars, you lived with a giant orc of a man ten feet away. And we still don’t know what caused you to freak out. That wasn’t ‘I want to bang the hot girl.’ That was ‘my whole world is melting, and everyone is dying.’” He points to the book still in the box on the coffee table. “There’s got to be something here.”
“Maybe she was in danger because of the poker game and all that other stuff,” Lena offers.
Alana shakes her head. “No. I was going to sell the game to the cartel. I was out. By dumping me, Grae put me in more danger.” That doesn’t make me feel any better. Instead, I start reading through the journal.
There’s a long entry about leaving Alana to go to Sweden. Pages of notes about producing. I flip ahead—lyrics in the margins, sketches of animals and monsters, superheroes, a pretty cool drawing of a landscape.
“What does two twenty-seven mean?” Lance asks.
“He broke up with her on April twenty-six, right?” Amanda asks. “He was in New York for some big retirement party.”
Lena shakes her head. “He didn’t go to that party. He left to go break up with Alana.”
Craig frowns, thumbing through the phone. “Wait. I’ve got it.” He tilts his head. “In February, while he’s on tour with Dragons, there’s this five-minute video.”
My much younger face appears on the screen. I’m trying to smolder at the camera, pushing back my hair, wiggling my eyebrows. I look ridiculous. I’m lying on my back in a cramped space. I can’t lift the phone high enough to get a better angle. Where am I? I keep vamping for the camera when footsteps echo—hollow, rhythmic. Seriously, where am I?
“Oh,” Amanda says, solving the puzzle. “You’re on the tour bus. That’s one of the bunks.”
That tracks. The bunks were coffin-sized, stacked along the side of the bus. The aisle ran down the center toward the fancy bed in back for the lead singer. But I was just a backup bass player, there's barely room to turn over, just a curtain for privacy. The footsteps grow louder, and it becomes clear there are two women—heels clicking on the floor.
Female Voice 1: “We’re alone?”
I look at the camera and I mouth “no” with a smirk.
Female Voice 2: “Yeah, the guys are all out. What happened?”
Voice 1: “Long story short, they’re getting a new tour bus.”
My eyes light up. I pump a victory fist and do a shoulder dance, staying silent. Then I hear gasping for air. A hiccup. A choked sob.
Voice 2: “Sweetie, come here.”
Voice 1: “I… I…”
Voice 2: “Talk to me.”
Voice One doesn’t. She cries for twenty seconds.
I don’t know why I keep filming. I don’t know why I don’t respect their privacy. But no one does on a tour bus. Finally, through a sob?—
Voice 1: “Jackson’s going to be so pissed.”
Voice 2: “Please talk to me.”
Voice 1: “He said it would help the band. That they’d get a new tour bus. He said I was lucky Jackson still wanted me. Most band members dump their girlfriends when they start getting famous.”
Voice 2: (indistinct murmurs)
Voice 1: “He said I don’t help write the songs. I don’t plan anything. I’m an extra body—eating their food, staying in their hotels, spending Jackson’s money.”
She starts crying again.
Voice 1: “All the girlfriends are the same. We have no value to the band but get all the benefits. We have the most to lose. He asked if I ever felt like an outsider. Like I didn’t fit. Like I was only there because Jackson wanted it. He said it was only a matter of time before the band turned and wanted me gone. He’s seen it happen a million times.”
Silence. My younger self’s goofy smile vanishes for furrowed brows and a sickly hue.
Voice 1: “But there was a way I could help. The company has extra money. They could upgrade the bus. Comfortable men put up with useless girlfriends longer.”
