Page 92 of Ireland

“No need. I’ll leave you to it.”

She spoke into the receiver. “I’ll come out and get Brett in a minute, Matt.”

“Sure thing.”

Angus stood and withdrew a folder from his bag as she hung up. Sliding the photos into it, he left the folder on her desktop. “Your copy of my report. I have to warn you…” He waited until he had her full attention. “The Boudreauxes will know that someone’s been asking around. I positioned myself as a true crime podcaster researching Lucas’s case, but if they’re as protective of their reputation as I believe, they won’t just takemy word for it. Whatever plans he has for this company may accelerate.”

Opening her top drawer, Ireland swiped the folder into it. “Ronan says he targeted Vidal Records because of a vendetta against my dad, who denies knowing anything about Ronan at all, although he admits to knowing a man who looks like him, which has to be Lucas, right?”

Angus’s interest sharpened; she could tell even without any outward sign. “Not necessarily. The Boudreauxes are a large brood. If two of the men look alike, there will likely be more among them with similar appearances. I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thank you for this, Angus.”

“Of course. I’ll be in touch.”

Rounding her desk, she walked with him to the door and opened it, summoning the inner strength to focus on the immediate problems facing her. Confronting Ronan would have to wait until she was sure she wouldn’t break down in tears in front of him. She would not humiliate herself that way or give him the satisfaction of seeing how he’d wounded her.

The first inkling of fury began to warm the block of ice in her gut.

Angus headed toward the elevators, and Ireland managed a smile for Brett, whose dimple flashed when he grinned back. The lead singer of Six-Ninths hadn’t changed his rocker-chic style in years. He still wore his hair short and bleached at the tips. Lean and tall, his arms were covered in sleeves of black and gray tattoos of various people, places, sayings, and things, and his green eyes gave her an appreciative once-over.

“Hey, Irie,” he greeted her, using the nickname he’d given her that only the band used. “Got a question for you since you’re the boss now, I’m told.”

She extended an arm toward her office in invitation, then followed him in. “Let’s hope I have an answer for you.”

“Your dad wanted us in the studio right away to record ‘First Kiss Goodbye,’ our new single.” He faced her once he reached her desk, choosing not to sit. “Did you hear the rough sample we sent?”

“I sure did,” she lied with what she hoped was an enthusiastic smile, remaining on the visitors’ side of her desk with him. “It’s fantastic, Brett. I’m thrilled for all of us.”

He nodded energetically, clearly excited. “Right? Weknowwe’ve got it with this one. Anyway, he’d sent us some pics of your new studios, and we’re ready to roll, but I guess you’re not…?”

Her smile didn’t falter. Although Six-Ninths had been around long enough to know how things worked, it wasn’t unusual for artists to question the support they were receiving—or not—from their label, especially when they were particularly proud of what they were working on. “That’s not true at all. We’ve been working hard to get everything ready for a big drop. Christopher will review the promotional plans with you this afternoon, and you’ll be pleased with them.”

“I meant the new studios aren’t ready,” he clarified. “Sorry. I’m jetlagged and under-caffeinated. So, we’re trying to figure out where we’re supposed to go.”

She opened her mouth to say more, but a sinking feeling silenced her. “Let me see what you’re talking about.”

“There’s nothing to see—that’s my point. The control and machine rooms are prepped for installation, but there’s no equipment yet. And I gotta tell you, Irie, I’m concerned that you don’t know that.”

Ireland was striding toward the elevators before he finished talking, then she took the stairs to get to the second floor faster. She burst through the door to the main hallway and found the rest of Six-Ninths talking with Chantal. It was impossible for Ireland to smile at anyone, with tears of frustration and heartache clogging her throat.

“We were here until around three,” Chantal was telling Darrin Rumsfeld, the Six-Ninths’ drummer. “Everything was here then.”

Ireland exited the machine room, now just an empty space with wires scattered all over the floor and a temperature that felt below freezing without the servers generating heat. She couldn’t say a word to anyone, afraid if she opened her mouth, only a piercing scream would erupt. She took the stairs back up to the executive floor. When she exited the stairwell, she saw Jules sitting at the conference table and marched over to him.

Thrusting the glass door open, she glared. “Where’s your brother?”

His lips curved into a malicious smile that was more of a sneer. “Bon matinto you, too, Lizzie.”

“Fuck you. Where’s Ronan?”

Laughing, he rocked back in his chair and checked his watch. “I’d say he’s about an hour away from landing in Lafayette. Never saw anyone pack that fast, but when my brother’s done, he moves on to what’s next and doesn’t look back.”

The news was a blow so severe she felt it like a punch. That she didn’t double over was inexplicable. “Why are you still here?”

“I like to throw the last handful of dirt on the coffin.”

Setting her hands on the table, she leaned toward him and took sharp satisfaction when he rolled his chair back a few inches. “Your family has made itself my mission in life. You might be too stupid to be scared about that now, and I’m fine with that because that’ll just make me more terrifying later.”

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