Xo

Kayleigh: Sure, you’re being stalked. But not by me. Maybe it’s the reporters and photographers. Maybe it’s your father. He claims he wants what’s best but does he? I’m not so sure. And what about the others? Maybe … I don’t know—Alicia, Tye Slocum—oh, keep an eye on him. I’ve seen how he looks at you. And Barry Zeigler. He’s holding on to you pretty tight. Who else does the label have as big as you? Neil Watson—but come on, he’s like a bad tribute act to himself. And who else is out there watching you, stalking you? Fans and strangers. People who don’t even know your music, but only that you’re beautiful and famous and rich. And they figure, why should you have all those things and not them? They don’t get how hard you work for them, how much you sacrifice.”
    She whispered, “Can’t you just leave me alone? Please!”
    “Oh, Kayleigh, you don’t want me to leave you alone. You just don’t know it yet.”

 
     

Chapter 41
    “LEAVING HOME …”
    Her hit song about the middle-aged immigrant woman being deported back to Mexico. The lines kept running through Kayleigh’s mind as she packed several suitcases and lugged them downstairs to the living room of her house, where Darthur Morgan took them from her and placed them in the SUV.
    Alicia Sessions was there too, helping her with the temporary move in her Ford F150. Kayleigh hadn’t wanted her to go to the trouble but the woman insisted on schlepping guitars, amps and boxes of provisions from Whole Foods—the store where organic-minded Kayleigh shopped, as opposed to Safeway, the source of the staples in the household where she was bound.
    “I can really manage.”
    “No problem at all,” Alicia said.
    “Well, stay for dinner, at least.”
    “I’m seeing some friends in town.”
    As efficient as she was, as important to the operation, Alicia remained largely a mystery to Kayleigh, the band and crew. She was a loner, who’d lived on the periphery of the professional music scene for years, performing alternative and post-punk in New York and San Francisco, without much success. She’d get her job done for Kayleigh and the business and then disappear in the evenings and on weekends for horseback riding and listening to music. Who the friends she was meeting tonight might be, Kayleigh had no idea. She assumed Alicia was gay. While the singer didn’t care one way or the other, aside from hoping she was in a loving relationship, in the country world the taboos were falling, but slowly; the genre was still the sound track of middle, conservativeAmerica. And Kayleigh guessed Alicia wasn’t comfortable bringing up her preferences.
    After the SUV and Alicia’s pickup were loaded, Kayleigh turned and looked over the house, as if for the last time.
    Leaving home …
    She climbed into the driver’s seat of the SUV, Morgan in the passenger for a change, and gunned the engine, then headed down the long drive, Alicia’s truck following.
    Expecting to see him, him, in the lot of the park, she rolled fast through the turn onto the road, skidding. Morgan grabbed the handhold and gave a rare smile. Kayleigh glanced around and into the rearview mirror but there were no red cars.
    “It’s for the best,” he said.
    “I suppose.”
    She realized that he was looking at her face closely. “Something happen at the theater?”
    “What do you mean?” Kayleigh kept her eyes pointed fiercely straight ahead, avoiding his as if he’d think: Oh, I know. She lured Edwin into that hall to kill him. I recognize that look.
    “Just checking to see if everything’s all right,” he said placidly. “You get an odd phone call or run into somebody there?”
    “No, everything’s fine.”
    Kayleigh reached for the radio but her hand paused then returned to the wheel. They drove all the way to Bishop Towne’s house in complete silence.
    She parked in the drive and Morgan helped Alicia carry the boxes, musical equipment and suitcases to the porch, then the guard strode into the night to check out the perimeter. The two women went inside.
    The small ground floor might have been an exhibit in a wing of the Grand Ole Opry. There were pictures and reviews and album covers—mostly of Bishop Towne and his band, of course. Some were photos of women singers whom Bishop had had affairs with long ago—and whose albums had been nailed up only after Wives Two through Four appeared. Unlike Margaret, they wouldn’t have known about the earlier