Run, Rose, Run(75)

But Ethan was naturally gracious, and he never seemed curt or hurried. He easily ingratiated himself with all the promoters and managers, and he’d dealt with their road troubles—a flat tire outside Wichita, a mild bout of food poisoning somewhere in rural Colorado—with good humor and patience. He was the steadiest man AnnieLee had ever known.

She glanced down at her phone, wondering what Ethan would do if she showed him all the threatening Instagram comments. There were new ones every day now. Would he call the police? Try to cancel the tour? Find the nearest Cabela’s and buy a gun? She’d brought her own Smith & Wesson, hidden inside the makeup kit she barely ever opened, but that was another secret she was keeping.

AnnieLee’s publicist had tried to reassure her that the messages didn’t really mean anything, and that lots of younger artists—women especially—attracted strange and sometimes menacing online attention. “I know it’s not fair,” Eileen had said. “It’s how the world is, unfortunately. But our team is on top of it. They’ll delete and report all inappropriate comments from creepy random strangers.”

And they were doing their best. But what Eileen didn’t know, of course, was that the comments weren’t random, and they weren’t from strangers. And that by posting tour dates and pictures to Instagram, Eileen was making it easy for AnnieLee to be found.

Or maybe the better word was stalked.

Even though she knew it was a bad idea, AnnieLee opened Instagram and checked her DMs. There was a link to the fiddle recording she’d asked the young musician to send her, an offer from an aspiring designer to send her some outfits, and a hundred sweet little fan messages full of hearts and praising hands emojis.

And then, as she’d known she would, she saw a new anonymous message, sent from the world she’d left behind. It was a picture of an unmade bed, and lying on the rumpled sheets was a curved and gleaming knife. Rose watch out, the note said.





Chapter

64



She didn’t think the message would rattle her—not really. It wasn’t like it had been a physical attack. But as AnnieLee was putting her hair into two long braids, she saw that her hands were shaking. How was she going to keep her old life from ruining her new one?

Too soon it was time for her to go onstage.

She stepped out in her uncomfortable boots, waving and smiling, as the audience clapped and some rose from their seats in welcome. Blue and violet shafts of light beamed down from the lighting rig as she put her hand on the microphone in its stand, her guitar dangling from its embroidered strap. She opened her mouth to greet the room, but no sound came out.

AnnieLee cleared her throat, trying to quell the rising fear. She felt like she was outside her body, floating off to the side, looking at her small frame all alone on that big stage.

Poor girl, she thought. She’s in way over her head.

Letting go of the mic, AnnieLee put her hands on the cool, solid wood of her guitar. She played a loud, bright chord to make the noise her mouth couldn’t. A few more: E, F sharp 5, G5, G sharp 5, and then A. Then her throat opened again, and she could speak.

“Hello, Salt Lake City,” she said. “Sorry about that little hiccup—I think I got a Pringle stuck in my throat.” She smiled brightly. “One of the hazards of touring, I guess. Constant low-level dehydration and a real excess of potato chips.” She could hear a little waver in her voice as she spoke. “Anyway, I guess I’ll shut up and play for you now.”

As she strummed the intro to “Driven,” she wondered if the audience could see the way her legs were shaking. She started to sing, but she had trouble calling up the lyrics. She skipped the second verse, and was as surprised as everyone else seemed to be when the song ended after two minutes.

“Well,” she said, feigning breezy nonchalance, “I wrote it, so I guess I’m allowed to change it up now and again, right?”

But her chest began to burn with dread. And she knew that the tenser she got, the more mistakes she would make. There were three hundred people in the room who had paid to see her, and she couldn’t let them down. She had to find her flow.

They don’t want to watch you fail, she thought, so don’t make them.

She picked the beginning to “Firecracker.”

Firecracker, I heard you callin’ me

Firecracker, that suits me to a T



The song was up-tempo, and she could feel herself gathering a bit of momentum.

I’m full of fire and passion, wound tight and aim to please

But if you want to play with fire, be mindful and take heed

Standin’ up for who I am and all that I believe



By the time the song was over, her legs had stopped trembling and her voice was coming out clear and strong. But she still felt vulnerable. Exposed. The audience was on her side—she’d won them over, at least until she screwed up again—but she couldn’t tap into their energy.

She turned toward stage left, where Ethan was waiting just beyond the curtain. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was there.

He was always there.

And right now she needed him closer.

She called him out onstage, just like she’d promised she wouldn’t do again, at least not without warning him. She saw him come shuffling out, more than a shred of reluctance to his step, and she motioned for him to come right to her side.