Page 2 of Stormswept Colorado

You’re too loud, my dad would say.Don’t put yourself on display.Good girls don’t do that.

I shoved that voice away. My music had made a difference in people’s lives. My songs brought a little extra beauty into the world, and that was something to be proud of.

After we finished singing, I said, “I’d better get going. Almost showtime. Say hi to Emma for me. And say woof to Stella.”

“Nooooo, don’t go yet! I miss you!”

Oh, I loved that. “I miss you too. Talk to you soon. Promise. I love you.”

“Love you too, Aunt Ayla!”

After I ended the call, my tour manager hadn’t reappeared. My back-up singers and dancers would be in the greenroom right now, psyching themselves up for showtime. I should be there with them. But I needed another minute or two to myself.

Whenever I thought of my dad, it left an icky feeling inside me. A stain I needed to wash away.

I turned toward the flowers, cards, and small gifts that lined a counter. Things sent by local businesses and fans. My team vetted everything to make sure it was all safe and uplifting. Maybe that made me sound too sensitive, like I couldn’t handle criticism or negativity, but if I gave oxygen to every hater I’d never have a moment of peace again.

I ran my fingers over the petals of a red daisy. There were other more exotic blooms too, and they’d filled the air with a subtle, lovely perfume.

Plenty of people appreciated what I did. I had people who loved me. Maisie and Ashford and legions of fans.

Sometimes it was overwhelming how much the fans wanted to know about me, how they got caught up in the tiniest details about my schedule, my clothes, my lyrics.

But where would I be without them? Irrelevant. Then another up-and-coming singer, maybe the one Maisie liked, would take my place.

I’d worked so hard for this. Sacrificed.

Plucking the small card from the flower arrangement, I opened the envelope to read the message inside. There was no name. Just a handwritten message.

You have no idea how beautiful you really are. I’ve always been your biggest fan.

A little over the top, but okay. Not unusual. I was surprised there wasn’t a name and a phone number. Messages like that usually came with the wild hope that I would contact them.

Then I noticed another folded piece of paper inside the envelope. I unfolded it, finding an image. A printout of a photo.

It wasme.

I didn’t understand.

Nausea rose in my stomach. Trembling overtook my body. Memories too.

When the door to the dressing room opened, I was struggling to breathe. The tour manager had reappeared, along with Cheryl Traynor, my artist manager and the woman in charge of my entire career trajectory. She didn’t come to every show, but she was here tonight.

Cheryl took one look at me and rushed over. “Ayla? You okay?”

“These flowers.” I cleared my throat, trying to stuff down the emotion. “Where’d these come from? Who sent them?”

Cheryl glanced at the tour manager, who just shook her head and shrugged.

“Is something wrong?” Cheryl asked me.

Reluctantly, I showed her the photo. “This was with the card. I want to know why someone has it. This is… It’s personal.”

Cheryl studied the image. It was an old picture from when I was a teenager, on the porch of the last house where we lived when I was sixteen. I was pretty sure Lori had snapped this with her digital camera. Just before I left for good.

Just before…that night.

“There are a lot of photos posted of you online. You know how people are. Someone you went to high school with wants to get some likes because they knew you once upon a time.”

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