Chapter 10
LEAH
On the first Monday of the second month, I heard my twenty-two-year-old self again inside Evan’s studio. The recording picked up where he’d stopped it last time: after the motel air conditioning and the highway noise, my voice came in first, singing the complete chorus melody.
On the recording, Asher said, “Sing it again.”
I did. It wasn’t until the second pass, on the last line, that his guitar joined in.
Across the console, Asher sat with his hands folded in his lap. He wasn’t looking at me—only at the green indicator light blinking steadily beside the speaker.
Evan pressed pause at the end of the recording. “This is the earliest file on record. It was created eleven weeks before the official demo and recorded on the handheld recorder Leah owned at the time. We’ll verify the core melody and chorus first.”
The timer on the corner of the desk began counting down.
This was the first review confirmed by the attorneys: four files only, a ninety-minute limit, and the right for me to leave at any time.
The original media would remain with Evan, and no unreleased material we heard that day could be taken away or used in another recording.
Only the fact sheet awaiting signatures sat on the console between us, with separate columns for lyrics, melody, and production.
“The lyrics are mine,” I said. “The verse was already written in the gray notebook that night. The chorus melody is the version in the recording.”
Evan noted it on the form, then looked at Asher. “Do you confirm that?”
“I confirm it. The guitar arrangement and tempo adjustments came later—those were mine. So was the break I added at the end of the second verse.”
“The vocals on the official recording and the stage adaptation?”
“Mine.”
Evan wrote each item down separately. He didn’t leave a single column for “done jointly as husband and wife.”
Asher looked at the form. “But it’s our song.”
I raised my eyes.
He seemed to hear what he’d just said. His lips pressed together. “I mean, we both had a hand in it.”
“Then let’s record what each hand actually did,” I said. “Don’t write the marriage into the contributions column.”
Evan didn’t look up. He turned the form so we could both read it. Lyrics and core melody: Leah Morgan. Guitar arrangement, vocals, stage adaptation: Asher Vale. Two separate rows, each name aligned with the work that person had actually done.
Evan played only the segments needed to establish origin.
The melody already present in the earliest voice memo was mine.
The structural revisions Asher had worked out in later rehearsals, the two replacement words, and the key change in the bridge were his.
The form preserved both sides of the work.
After we each signed the fact sheet, Evan opened the second folder.
A label appeared on the screen that I had already seen once before: PRIVATE — LEAH SOLO — NOT FOR RELEASE.
My fingers pressed down against the edge of the desk. That recording was from the first winter after my mother died—a sole-authored piece I’d recorded in one take sometime before dawn. I had never authorized Asher to hear the final section, and I had never placed it in any shared project.
“The file came to me through a private backup,” Evan said.
“It was never entered into any co-writing directory. Last month, a project assistant account listed a copy in the new album’s listening queue during a bulk sort of old material, but there’s no evidence it was played or moved into production. ”
“I didn’t authorize anyone to hear it.”
“I know. What we need now is a formal record confirming ownership and scope of use.”
“It belongs entirely to me. I’m not authorizing playback, adaptation, sampling, or release—and it is not part of any joint project created during the marriage.”
Evan entered my exact words into the form and turned to Asher.
Asher’s gaze stayed on the file name. “I didn’t know it was on the listening queue.”
I didn’t answer. The file’s status on the screen hadn’t changed.
“Are you asserting any creative or usage rights?” Evan asked.
“No,” Asher said.
“Then I’ll flag this as an unreleased sole-authored work by Leah Morgan, remove it from the project files, the listening cache, the project recording backups, and the assistant’s queue, and issue written confirmation that the working copies have been deleted.”
Evan carried out the instruction. A red status tag appeared beside the file: REMOVED FROM ACTIVE PROJECT. I didn’t let go of the desk until those words were on the screen.
Asher didn’t ask to hear it. When Evan closed the folder, he only asked, “Are there other copies?”
“The original backup is with me,” Evan said. “Only Leah has access. Every other location will be cleared according to the instruction just given.”
Asher nodded and said nothing more. The third file—an early rehearsal recording—had very little in dispute: the guitar riff at the opening was Asher’s; the lyrics and core melody added two days later were mine.
Evan marked it as joint work based on the timestamps, with the percentage deferred for written confirmation.
The last file ran forty-seven seconds. I didn’t remember it.
In the recording, Asher played a chord progression and I came in with a chorus.
The first two lines had a complete melody; the third line stopped on a suspended note.
The younger Asher laughed and said that part wasn’t right. I told him we’d fix it after we slept.
We never fixed it. After the speaker went quiet, Asher’s fingers moved against his knee. He looked at the screen first, then at me, hesitation settling over his face in a way I knew too well.
For thirteen years, whenever he looked at me that way, I would automatically fill in the blank. I’d ask whether he wanted the ending to feel angrier or more like regret, and I’d offer three options before he’d even finished forming the question. Many nights we didn’t need to say any of it out loud.
His lips parted. “Leah, this part?—”
He stopped. The only sound in the room was the low hum of the equipment fans. Asher moved his gaze back to the screen. Two seconds passed before he said, “Mark it incomplete. Keep it out of every project.”
Evan looked at me. “Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
The third line still hung on that note that had never resolved. Evan added INCOMPLETE — NO ACTIVE USE after the file name, then closed the player.
Nine minutes remained on the timer. Asher looked as though he wanted to say something; his hand moved from his knee to the surface of the desk and stopped there. I didn’t ask, and I didn’t let his silence claim the nine minutes left on the timer.
I gathered the signed confirmation pages into my folder. “That’s all for today.”
Evan glanced at the timer. “There’s one technical note that was originally scheduled for review—it can be handled in writing.”
“Send it to the attorneys.”
“Okay.”
Asher stood, but he didn’t come around to my side of the desk. “Same ninety minutes next time?”
“Same terms,” I said.
He nodded. “I’ll be on time.”
I put on my coat and confirmed that the removal record for the private demo had been sent to my email. Near the door sat an old tape case, its label worn pale by time. Evan lifted out the recording we would review next and set it on the console.
The title of Asher’s best-known “autobiographical work” was printed on the tape’s outer sleeve. For thirteen years he had said in interviews, again and again, that the song was written on the night he first understood he could survive failure.
But the original file name on the tape didn’t follow his naming convention: date first, location in the middle, and a lowercase v2 at the end—the format I had used for every demo back then.
Evan placed it inside the clear sleeve for the next review.
Before the flap closed, I saw that the notes field held a single line: Original voice: Leah Morgan.