Chapter Nine
Anotification lit up his phone just as Rick was taking a sip of his coffee. He ignored it at first and continued reading through an email thread he’d already read twice. Nothing in it mattered.
The notification buzzed again, so he put his mug down and checked it out. A headline sat at the top of the screen on some entertainment site he couldn’t remember following. He nearly scrolled past it, then paused when a photo loaded and he saw who was in it.
It wasn’t a clean shot. It looked as if someone had taken it outside a venue after a rehearsal or a show. A cluster of people in coats, a security guard, a man in a cap smiling at someone off-camera, and a woman turned slightly toward the lens as if she’d heard her name being called.
Rick stared at the screen. He knew who it was. Cass.
Her hair was darker than he remembered and pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a long coat that looked expensive, fitted at the shoulders, the kind of thing you bought when you had money. Her mouth was open mid-laugh, and one hand was lifted as if she were waving at someone.
Rick scrolled down and saw the caption. Cassidy Lane spotted leaving rehearsal with rising star Jalen Cross ahead of U.S. tour launch.
He read it again, slower this time, like he’d misunderstood.
Rising star. Tour launch. Rehearsal. He tapped the article.
It opened with a few paragraphs of filler, quotes pulled from someone else’s interview, and the usual things reporters used when they didn’t have anything to add but wanted to report something.
Tight harmonies. Live setup. The team behind the sound.
Cassidy Lane, longtime backing vocalist and vocal coach, reportedly part of Cross’s new live setup. Longtime. Vocal coach. Rick’s throat tightened.
He scrolled to the next photo, which showed Cass again, walking beside the singer. She was glancing back over her shoulder and smiling at someone out of frame. She looked relaxed. Comfortable. As if she belonged there.
Rick didn’t move for a minute, then his fingers tightened on the phone. He forced them to relax before he did something stupid and threw it across the room.
Cassidy Lane. Rick hadn’t said her name out loud in years, but now he wanted to know more, so he backed out of the article and opened a browser. Typing her name, Rick tapped search and waited for the results to load.
The results loaded fast. At first, it was a few old clips and a short interview from years ago where she’d been asked about working with him.
A red carpet photo where she stood behind him, smiling politely while he’d been shoved forward.
A list of credits on a music site that looked as if it hadn’t been updated in a while.
Rick stared at the screen and felt the anger build inside. Working with Rick Marcus like he’d been some stepping stone. He clicked another result. More photos and more mentions. Her name attached to other artists. Some small. Some bigger. One thing stood out as he scrolled. She’d kept working.
Cass had always been like that. She showed up early, did her warm-ups, and then did the work. Came back and did it again the next day. She didn’t chase attention the way some others did. She treated it as a job because she was good at it, and she knew what it took.
Rick clicked a photo from an older rehearsal clip. Cass with a mic in her hand, mouth open mid-note, eyes closed as if she was in the sound.
It didn’t feel fair that she was still in rooms like that while he sat in an apartment scrolling headlines. It didn’t feel fair that anyone was writing about her now, even if it was only because she was standing beside someone else who was more famous.
Rick couldn’t stop himself from searching more. A newer interview. A post from Cass herself with a caption about being grateful and proud of the team. Rick read it once, then again, clenching his jaw until he felt his teeth ache.
He clicked on her profile and went through the posts that came up. Studio photos and short clips of harmonies. Posts about vocal health and technique. Comments from people who actually seemed to listen to what she was saying.
Putting the phone down on the counter, Rick glared and stared at it. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered to himself. Cass had her life and Rick had his. They hadn’t spoken in years. She could carry on with her singing, but that thought didn’t help.
Rick picked the phone back up and searched for Jalen Cross. Another headline and a photo appeared with an article talking about momentum and buzz, and breakout.
Breakout. That’s what it said. Breakout.
The tour list was there, too. Cities listed down the page. Rick went over it twice, noting where the tour dates were located. Los Angeles. Phoenix. Dallas. Atlanta. Nashville. Chicago.
He didn’t care about the singer, not really. The part that hit him the hardest was Cass being there beside him, being part of the group of people being praised, being asked to help while Rick sat in his quiet apartment.
The memory came up without warning. Years ago, after a show when his throat had been raw from pushing too hard and the next day’s schedule had been brutal, he’d asked her in the dressing room. Rick slumped on the couch, sweaty and tired. Cass stood with her bag over her shoulder.
“Can you do the next run with me?” he’d asked.
Cass had looked at him for a second, then nodded. “If you take care of your voice.”
Rick had tried to laugh, but it came out more like a grunt. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” she’d said. “If you want me there, don’t burn yourself out for no reason.”
He remembered how it had felt to have her talk to him like that, like he was a person and not some product making money for an agency. He remembered how easily she’d been gone once Graham had cut the budget.
“We don’t need backup on the next leg,” Graham had said. “The fans come for you.”
Cass had been in the hallway when Rick walked out of the meeting. Her face had been still, but her eyes had looked tired.
“You could’ve said something,” Rick had told her.
Cass had blinked slowly. “To Graham?”
Rick had snapped, “To me.”
“I did,” she’d said. “You didn’t want to hear it.”
Rick stared at the phone, the old anger coming back like it had never left. Cass had walked away, and now she was back in the game, getting photographed as if she were important, while Rick’s song sat on old playlists and people talked about him like he was a nostalgia act, like a has-been.
He opened her tagged photos. There were more now.
Fan shots. Music people posting from studios and airports, and rehearsals.
Cass smiling. Cass working. Cass looking happy.
He clicked a link that listed tour crew and band members.
It was probably a fan page, but it had names and details and comments from people who paid attention to that sort of thing.
Someone said they’d seen her at rehearsal in Nashville, and someone else mentioned she’d posted from LA the week before.
Rick narrowed his eyes and clicked again. Another site and another mention. He pulled up the tour schedule and stared at the dates.
He didn’t know what he was doing, not really. He only knew that he didn’t like the feeling of being left behind. He didn’t like how Cass had moved on as if he was a chapter she’d closed, while he appeared to have been relegated to yesterday.
Putting the phone down, Rick walked to the living room, then back into the kitchen, and then stopped.
The restlessness was familiar now. It wasn’t nerves, though.
It was the same itch he’d had all week whenever the story about Graham popped up on the news.
The same itch he’d had after the police interview.
He opened a cupboard, took out a glass, poured water, drank half of it, and then put it down again. His hands were steady. That was what made it worse.
He picked his phone up and opened the notes app. His thumb hovered over the blank screen for a second. No, not this phone. His old one he didn’t use now.
Rushing to his bedroom, Rick pulled open a drawer and rummaged through the items inside until he found his old phone. He switched it on, waiting for the screen to light up. Once it did, he opened the notes app and began to type out a list.
Cassidy Lane
Jalen Cross tour
Where is she based?
He stared at the list. It didn’t mean anything on its own. It was just words. But starting it made his breathing ease and his body relax.
He went back to the kitchen and picked up his phone, then clicked on the browser.
He clicked through bios and interviews. He checked tagged locations.
He read the comments under her posts, then the ones she liked.
People put their lives online without thinking.
They told you where they were and who they were with, and what they were doing.
They called it connection. Rick called it careless, and now it gave him the information he needed.
A message popped up from Allen. You okay?
Rick stared at it longer than he meant to. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped replying to Allen. He typed back. Yeah. Just busy.
Allen responded fast. Work stuff?
Rick’s mouth tightened. Allen was trying. Allen asked questions and waited for answers, the way he always did. Rick should’ve told him something normal. Gym. Writing. Dinner plans. Anything that didn’t drag this dark edge into the conversation.
Instead, his eyes went back to Cass’s page and quickly replied. Just music stuff.
Allen replied. You want to talk about it?
Rick stared at Allen’s message. For a second, he imagined telling Allen the truth.
Not the whole truth, but enough of it. That he’d seen someone from his past who was doing well and it had hit a nerve with him.
That it made him feel like he’d been forgotten.
He didn’t type that though. Not really. I’m fine.
There was a pause before Allen responded. Okay. I’m here if you want.
Rick stared at that and felt something shift in his chest, and he exhaled softly. Allen didn’t push, and he didn’t make demands. Allen didn’t take or want any attention for being with a former celebrity.
Rick put the phone on the counter, then picked it up and opened the browser again.
He found the management company attached to the tour, then the production credit page with names and a base city listed for the team.
He copied the information into his notes then sat back and looked at what he’d collected.
It wasn’t illegal, what he was doing. Everything was information anyone could find if they cared enough to look. That was the point. Everything was public, just sitting there waiting.
Rick could stop. He could shut the phone off, go to the gym again, take Allen out, and pretend Cass didn’t exist. Instead, he went to the bedroom and opened the drawer. The watch case was still there, wrapped and shoved to the back. He closed the drawer again, but the reminder landed anyway.
He’d crossed a line once when he’d murdered Graham, and the police had believed the story he’d created. He could do it again if he wanted to.
Rick walked back into the kitchen, sat at the small table, and opened his notes again. Cass’s name was at the top. Tour dates underneath. Cities and scraps of information he could connect if he wanted to.
Under the list he typed, Make her remember.
Rick stared at the screen for a long time without moving. When he finally set the phone down, he felt calm. “I know what I need to do.”