Chapter Four #2
“I’ve spent years asking you to tell me the truth before I learn it from a photograph.” She turned to Cassidy. “Are you comfortable continuing?”
“I’m comfortable continuing,” Cassidy said. “The coverage plan protects the detail and gives me required relief periods. If the relationship interferes with my judgment or Shane’s cooperation, Sloane changes the assignment.”
“Good. That’s all I need.”
Cassidy set down her fork. “You also need the Friday update. You weren’t on the patio call.”
Tracy’s expression changed. “What happened?”
“A diner took a real photograph at The Salty Spoon,” I said. “Someone reposted it as an informal appearance and sent fans to the restaurant.”
“The entrance compressed before we left through the service exit,” Cassidy said. “Nobody was hurt.”
“While we were at soundcheck, someone left fresh photographs of the extraction on my patio,” I said.
Cassidy lifted her phone. “The note said, ‘Cancel Saturday. Stop hiding behind her. Jesse deserved this comeback.’”
Tracy didn’t speak.
Her eyes narrowed.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Say that last sentence again.”
“Jesse deserved this comeback,” Cassidy said.
Tracy leaned closer to the screen. “I should’ve connected this sooner.
Every message makes your comeback sound like something you stole from Jesse.
There’s a Jesse archive that used to post side-by-side concert clips.
It paired clips of you at center stage with clips highlighting Jesse’s guitar work and songs.
Their slogan was ‘Shane had the spotlight. Jesse made the music.’”
I put down my toast.
“You’ve seen it before?”
“For years. It was fan-run, obsessive but legal. They stopped posting regularly after the breakup.”
“Do you know who ran it?” Cassidy asked.
“I never dealt with the administrator directly. Send the message to me and Rafi. I’ll find the old press contacts.”
Cassidy sent it while we were still on the call.
Tracy faced me. “This doesn’t mean Jesse’s involved.”
“I understand.”
“He hated what happened to the band, but he built a life. He doesn’t need someone punishing you on his behalf.”
“I won’t blame him for it.”
Her face softened. “Good. Keep it that way.”
After we ended the call, Cassidy finished her water and stood.
“Change for the walk.”
I gestured at my bare chest and gray shorts. “You don’t approve?”
“I approve of a shirt, navy board shorts, and slides.”
“I thought you enjoyed the current arrangement.”
“I enjoyed it when nobody had a camera.”
I changed.
Ten minutes later, Cassidy led me through the cottage’s controlled entrance. An SBS agent took the forward position while another remained near the property line. The quiet beach stretch began beyond a row of sea grapes where the resort traffic thinned and the boardwalk noise faded behind us.
The tide had pulled back, leaving a wide strip of firm wet sand. Small waves folded over one another beneath the morning sun. Cassidy walked on my right, close enough that our hands brushed once before she widened the space between us.
Her pale-blue tank brightened her eyes. Her secure braid moved against the back of her shoulders. She looked softer than she had during the crowd extraction and just as capable of putting me on the ground if I ignored a route change.
“You can hold my hand,” I said.
“I’m working.”
“Our hands touched.”
“The beach is uneven.”
“That’s the least romantic explanation available.”
“I’m protecting your expectations.”
I smiled, but it didn’t last.
Last night, I’d fallen asleep with Cassidy’s hand on my chest and no one telling me where to stand. By morning, one agent walked ahead, another covered the property behind us, and our return route had already been cleared.
Cassidy turned toward me. “You’re thinking too loudly again.”
“I’ve been told.”
“Do you want to tell me this time?”
We continued along the edge of the water. The agent ahead stayed far enough away to give us space without leaving the route uncovered.
“After the band ended, everyone made decisions for me,” I said. “Some of them had good reasons. I wasn’t exactly demonstrating excellent judgment.”
“You told me part of that yesterday.”
“I left out why I stopped hearing the reasons.”
Cassidy waited.
A wave dissolved around my slides.
“The party wasn’t supposed to matter,” I said. “We’d finished a run of shows. Everyone was exhausted, and somebody had rented a house where nobody was supposed to take pictures or report back to the label.”
My throat tightened.
“I’d been drinking. When Vince started going down, I wasn’t sober enough to make my hands work the way I wanted.”
Cassidy stayed beside me.
“I kept saying his name. I tried to get him to look at me. Someone said, ‘He only needs a minute,’ and I started yelling for an ambulance because his breathing was wrong.”
The surf hissed over the sand.
“I knew he was in danger. I also knew I wasn’t sober enough to help him properly. I couldn’t fix anything. I could barely keep track of what people were saying.”
Cassidy’s fingers brushed mine again.
This time, she didn’t move away.
“I told the police who brought the drugs and who shared them,” I said. “I didn’t lie for the band. I didn’t lie for myself. I don’t regret that.”
“But you regret the rest.”
“I regret being impaired when Vince needed someone clearheaded. I regret that he almost died. I regret that the band collapsed and everyone lost years, even though I know telling the truth wasn’t what put him on that floor.”
My voice roughened.
“Some fans decided I betrayed them. Sometimes I think Jesse and Mick probably did too, even if they never said it that way. Then every manager and label representative spent two years treating me like one more bad decision would destroy whatever was left.”
Cassidy stopped walking.
I turned toward her.
She took my hand and held it between both of hers.
“You were responsible for getting impaired,” she said. “You can regret that.”
I nodded once.
“You didn’t give Vince the drugs, and you didn’t make the label drop the band. Once you understood he was in danger, you pushed for help. When the police asked what happened, you told them.”
“I still couldn’t do enough.”
“You couldn’t undo the night after it started.”
“That doesn’t make it feel better.”
“I’m not trying to make it feel better.”
Her thumbs pressed against my knuckles.
“You made a bad choice that night,” she said. “You didn’t cause every bad thing that happened afterward.”
My fingers tightened around hers.
“You’re very inconvenient,” I said.
“I’m holding your hand on a secured beach. Try to appreciate the service.”
I laughed, and the sound came out uneven.
She stepped closer.
I touched the freckle beside her mouth. “Can I kiss my bodyguard on this secured beach?”
“Not while I’m working.”
“That answer lacked warmth.”
“The agent ahead has an unobstructed view.”
I tipped my chin toward him. He faced the opposite direction with admirable commitment.
“He appears focused on maritime conditions.”
“He’s pretending not to hear you.”
“I respect his professionalism.”
Cassidy’s mouth curved.
I lowered my voice. “Can I kiss you later?”
“Yes, you can.”
I smiled.
Her phone vibrated.
Cassidy released my hand and checked the screen. “It’s Rafi.”
She answered. “Go ahead.”
“I have Tracy on the line,” he said. “We found the archive administrator.”
Cassidy put the call on speaker.
Tracy’s voice came through first. “The name attached to the old archive press requests is Melanie Keene. She’s a freelance music photographer.”
Rafi continued. “The current limited-media list for High Tide Pavilion includes a Melanie Keene.”
Cassidy’s entire posture sharpened. “How strong is the connection?”
“The name and contact information match across the old press requests and the current credential application. I’m treating her as the likely sender.”
“Does her credential clear her beyond the photographer area?”
“Her approval is limited to rehearsal and concert photography. Isabel is tightening every route now.”
Another voice joined the call.
“Cassidy, this is Isabel. Melanie’s name is on the approved list, but I don’t have the final check-in roster yet. The outer media desk hasn’t sent it back.”
“So we don’t know whether she’s entered the pavilion,” Cassidy said.
“We don’t know yet. I’ve requested an immediate check and alerted the venue leads. Her name will be flagged before anyone clears another credential.”
“What about the artist suite and stage corridor?”
“We’re rechecking both. Access is restricted until you arrive.”
Cassidy faced me. “The show stays scheduled unless the risk changes.”
“I’m not canceling because a name appeared.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“Return through the service entrance,” Rafi said. “Isabel will send the final time once the route is clear.”
“We’ll be ready,” Cassidy said.
The call ended.
For a moment, only the waves filled the space between us.
Yesterday, the person watching me had been a blank account, a camera somewhere beyond the hedge, and a message left beneath a water glass.
Now we had a likely name: Melanie Keene. If Rafi was right, she’d turned a real crowd into a trap and cropped Cassidy’s hand at my waist. Her media credential gave her a legitimate path into the pavilion.
Cassidy slipped her phone away and reached for my hand again.
If Melanie Keene came to High Tide Pavilion, she wouldn’t have to sneak in.
Someone had already approved her to walk through the door.