to come up with songs. Then there are the shows
themselves. Most of the time, they’re local, but some are out of town and we
may spend the night in a motel. So maybe you should think about what this gig
actually means before you agree to it.”
“That’s fine, I get that,” she said. “I just don’t like
people asking me too many questions about my past. I don’t like living in the
past. I want to live in the here and now.”
Another flag came up and my mind went wild imagining what
she was trying to hide. Did she escape prison? Was she on the run from an
abusive lover?
I was willing to overlook her obsessive need for privacy to
bring her into the band. When I warned the guys, they scoffed. “What is she,
some freak?” Mark asked.
“Look who’s talking.”
“Whatever,” Rocco said. “Like I care where she came from. I
have enough girls I have to pretend to be interested in. All I want to know is
if she can sing in front of an audience.”
It turned out she could. And since then, Angelica had been
part of our band, becoming a bigger part of my life as well. She kept her
distance from the other guys and they gave her a wide berth most of the time,
unless we were stuck together on a long drive. The two of us had developed a
sort of friendship.
As much as she wanted to keep her past a secret, I knew she
was afraid of someone or something. The skittish way she often reacted,
especially if taken off guard, was one I caught on to very quickly. The mystery
of who she was and what she was hiding from bothered me. Combined with my
feelings for her, I knew I had a tendency to be overprotective when it came to
her. A trait she didn’t appreciate.
Late at night, I wondered if our chemistry onstage and our
slowly blooming friendship offstage could lead to something else one day. But I
didn’t want to come on to her and scare her off. She had enough guys hitting on
her every time she played and I’m sure she wouldn’t want her bandmates to jump
on that wagon.
So I was too much of a chickenshit to let her know how I
felt. And if something had happened to her without me ever telling her—well, I
didn’t want to go there.
One regret that had been building up inside of me since she
went missing last night was never asking her what she was afraid of. Was she
hiding from someone? I would have offered to help her.
Now I was afraid that whatever was haunting Angelica from
her past had caught up with her. And it might be too late for me to help her.
When the PI arrived, he ordered a black coffee and a muffin
and then sat across from me.
“Jack Westcott,” he said, shaking my hand. He sported a
graying mustache and an obvious toupee and wore jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt
covered by a Red Sox jacket.
“Tell me about the situation,” he said and took a sip of his
coffee. My coffee had long since gone cold. The knot in my stomach turned me
off coffee at the moment.
I told him what I knew about Angelica Blackwell, which
wasn’t much, while he ate his muffin. Then I described how I last saw her at
the club; she’d left with a guy and said she’d be right back, but then never
returned. When I asked the bouncer if she came back, he said he hadn’t seen
her.
“I know it’s been less than twenty-four hours and I might
sound like I’m overreacting, but I think something is up. I just don’t know
what it is.”
“What happened with the guy she left with?”
“I saw him driving away from the club a short time later,
but she wasn’t with him.”
“Are you sure of this?” he asked, leaning in.
“Well, yeah,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I saw him
drive away. She wasn’t in the car.”
“You mean she wasn’t visible to you. One thing I know about
this business is never to dismiss something unless it’s a concrete no.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying this guy is the last person we know to have seen
her, after the bouncer and you. So we find this guy and ask him what he
themselves. Most of the time, they’re local, but some are out of town and we
may spend the night in a motel. So maybe you should think about what this gig
actually means before you agree to it.”
“That’s fine, I get that,” she said. “I just don’t like
people asking me too many questions about my past. I don’t like living in the
past. I want to live in the here and now.”
Another flag came up and my mind went wild imagining what
she was trying to hide. Did she escape prison? Was she on the run from an
abusive lover?
I was willing to overlook her obsessive need for privacy to
bring her into the band. When I warned the guys, they scoffed. “What is she,
some freak?” Mark asked.
“Look who’s talking.”
“Whatever,” Rocco said. “Like I care where she came from. I
have enough girls I have to pretend to be interested in. All I want to know is
if she can sing in front of an audience.”
It turned out she could. And since then, Angelica had been
part of our band, becoming a bigger part of my life as well. She kept her
distance from the other guys and they gave her a wide berth most of the time,
unless we were stuck together on a long drive. The two of us had developed a
sort of friendship.
As much as she wanted to keep her past a secret, I knew she
was afraid of someone or something. The skittish way she often reacted,
especially if taken off guard, was one I caught on to very quickly. The mystery
of who she was and what she was hiding from bothered me. Combined with my
feelings for her, I knew I had a tendency to be overprotective when it came to
her. A trait she didn’t appreciate.
Late at night, I wondered if our chemistry onstage and our
slowly blooming friendship offstage could lead to something else one day. But I
didn’t want to come on to her and scare her off. She had enough guys hitting on
her every time she played and I’m sure she wouldn’t want her bandmates to jump
on that wagon.
So I was too much of a chickenshit to let her know how I
felt. And if something had happened to her without me ever telling her—well, I
didn’t want to go there.
One regret that had been building up inside of me since she
went missing last night was never asking her what she was afraid of. Was she
hiding from someone? I would have offered to help her.
Now I was afraid that whatever was haunting Angelica from
her past had caught up with her. And it might be too late for me to help her.
When the PI arrived, he ordered a black coffee and a muffin
and then sat across from me.
“Jack Westcott,” he said, shaking my hand. He sported a
graying mustache and an obvious toupee and wore jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt
covered by a Red Sox jacket.
“Tell me about the situation,” he said and took a sip of his
coffee. My coffee had long since gone cold. The knot in my stomach turned me
off coffee at the moment.
I told him what I knew about Angelica Blackwell, which
wasn’t much, while he ate his muffin. Then I described how I last saw her at
the club; she’d left with a guy and said she’d be right back, but then never
returned. When I asked the bouncer if she came back, he said he hadn’t seen
her.
“I know it’s been less than twenty-four hours and I might
sound like I’m overreacting, but I think something is up. I just don’t know
what it is.”
“What happened with the guy she left with?”
“I saw him driving away from the club a short time later,
but she wasn’t with him.”
“Are you sure of this?” he asked, leaning in.
“Well, yeah,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I saw him
drive away. She wasn’t in the car.”
“You mean she wasn’t visible to you. One thing I know about
this business is never to dismiss something unless it’s a concrete no.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying this guy is the last person we know to have seen
her, after the bouncer and you. So we find this guy and ask him what he
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