“That’s not how it happened for you.”
Her sister’s face reflected all of Cady’s fears, but she wasn’t about to burden a seventeen-year-old with them. “That’s exactly how it happened for me. I played two hundred small shows a year, until Chris heard me in Chicago and signed me. I look like I came out of nowhere, but you know how much I was on the road before anyone noticed me. And I should have gone to college. You’re as good as your last project. If my next album bombs, how much attention do you think I’ll get? None. Right now all I’m qualified to do is ask people if they want fries with that.”
Emily shoved her hands into her hair. “Maybe Dad’s right. He said if I went to a school with a pre-law major, he’d fund my business the whole time I was in college.”
Parsons School of Design trained generations of creative thinkers, but decidedly did not have a pre-law major. No matter what he promised about funding her business, taking their dad’s deal would effectively derail Emily’s dream, and how like him to take Em’s dream and hold it out like a carrot. “You don’t need to do that. You can go to law school later if you decide you don’t like design. You’ve got ambition, and talent, and drive. You’re going to get into Parsons. So go back to fifth period and ace your finals.”
“I really just want to hang out with you,” Emily said quietly.
“This weekend. I promise.”
“Conn will be there?”
“Yes,” Cady sighed. “Conn will be there.”
“Fine. Have it your way,” Emily said. She opened the fridge, snagged a Greek yogurt container and a spoon from the drying rack beside the sink, and stalked back through the dining room to the foyer. Cady grabbed the steamer, tucked it between her arm and her hip and followed her, watching as she snagged her tote, flashed Conn a fake smile, and whirled back out through the front door.
When it slammed shut, Cady looked at Conn. His face betrayed nothing, so maybe he heard the whole conversation and maybe he heard none of it. “It’s a difficult age,” she said.
He just nodded. “Ready to go?”
“I think I’ve got everything.”
“Wait here.”
“Okay,” she said. She pulled out her phone to run through the latest social media while Conn trotted down the steps, popped the trunk on the Audi, and tucked the suitcases inside. She answered a few fans, retweeted pictures from the concert, added a couple of her own from backstage at the homecoming concert. The label’s publicity team handled the glossy official images, but she liked to do the more intimate shots from her own social media handles to stay in touch with fans.
Conn came back for her, hovering behind her as she locked the door, then escorting her to the car. She was used to having a big guy by her side most of the time, used to tuning out Evan’s stream of chatter, but Conn was a looming, silent presence she couldn’t shut out.
“Where to now?”
“Do you know the Whispering Pines community?” she asked.
“The gated community just the other side of the county line?”
“That’s the one,” she confirmed.
He started the car and wound their way north, out of the city and into rolling hills. He turned up the drive to the imposing brick and wrought-iron gates, then used the remote clipped to the visor to open them.
“All the way down to the bottom of the hill, then turn right,” she said.
Trees bare of their leaves stood among thick, tall pines; in the summer it was impossible to see even a hint of the houses widely spaced on wooded lots, giving her ample privacy. The location had the added advantage of being a short drive from Lancaster’s prime entertainment district, SoMa, and the airport.
“Turn here,” she said.
He was already making the turn up the long driveway to the house. It was dark, not even the exterior lights on, and the sun had all but set, so the trees cast deep shadows across the driveway as he pulled into the garage at the north end of the house.
“The real estate agent who sold me the house turned the water back on and made sure everything still worked.” Her voice echoed in the garage, as did the closing doors.
Steamer under one arm and her purse over her other shoulder, she opened the door leading to the mudroom. Other than three built-in cubbies for hanging coats and storing shoes, the white-painted room was empty. Cady toed out of her boots and carried the steamer through the door into the kitchen and looked around.
The house was beautiful, rich with dark hardwood floors, white cabinets, and dark granite surfaces in the kitchen. The open floor plan flowed from the kitchen, in the center of the house, to a dining room and living area next to floor-to-ceiling windows. The last of the setting sun gilded the tops of the trees sloping gently up the hill. She had no one behind her, or visible to either side; the nearest neighbor’s lot was two acres away.