Part 29 (1/2)

Her friend Iris joins us there. Daphne asked her to play the violin in the background, while Daphne is on the piano, and I am the guitarist. Once we'd started rehearsing the song, and I discovered that my voice is supposed to carry the bulk of the lyrics-with Daphne joining in, complementing mine in certain parts-I wasn't sure I could pull this off.

”You can do this,” Daphne had said after a few failed attempts during rehearsal. ”Your voice is perfect for the song and your playing is technically spot-on. You just need to open yourself up to the emotion of it all. Let the words fall through you-like the song says.” I try to remember that now as I start the intro on the guitar. The first few lines of the song are mine alone, and then Daphne joins in. The timbre of her voice makes me tremble. It sounds like how I imagine her caress might feel. I close my eyes briefly, calming myself. As I play, I concentrate on nothing but the sounds of our voices. Iris's violin in the background fades away, and as far as I am concerned, the audience disappears. All that remains are our voices mixing together-no, more like clasping. Like two lovers who have found each other's hands in the darkness. It's a reaching, yearning sound that makes the wanting ache burn inside my chest.

This time, there's nothing uncertain about it.

When the final note of the song falls, the audience erupts in applause. The sound startles me. I have almost forgotten that Daphne and I are not alone on the edge of her couch, rehearsing. The moment had felt like such an intimate one to me that cheers from the crowd feel intrusive.

Daphne takes my hand and I follow her lead, bowing to the audience.

”Your song,” she says, leaning close to me, as if listening to my heartbeat. ”It's beautiful.” I tilt my head, studying her face, not sure what she means. Daphne smiles at me, but then her gaze flits to the audience, who stand on their feet, clapping for us. She's still looking for Joe.

I can feel her mounting disappointment until I hear a loud, sharp whistle from the back of the crowd.

My gaze follows Daphne's as she finds Joe standing near the kettle corn booth. The smile returns to her face.

”That's my girl!” Joe shouts over the applause. ”That's my daughter!” He starts making his way through the crowd. Daphne's smile folds into a frown. Joe's steps are too heavy, lumbering, and he almost pushes over an older man in his haste to get near the stage.

”That's my daughter!” he shouts again. The volume of his voice strikes me as inappropriate, and his voice is tinged with anger. He holds a long-necked, brown bottle in his hand.

”Oh no, Joe,” Daphne says under her breath.

”That's my daughter. She's perfect. She's everything a man could ever want in a child. And I gave her up. I traded her for fame and fortune.”

Mayor Winters suddenly appears on the stage. She takes a microphone. ”The Joe Vince, everybody!

How about a round of applause for our local rock star?” She leads the crowd in an awkward spatter of applause. A couple of camera phones flash.

Joe looks around, jerking his head back and forth as if he can't figure out why people are clapping for him.

”Did you all know that Joe Vince is writing the school musical?” the mayor goes on, trying to defuse the situation. ”Isn't he fantastic?”

”What? I'm not fantastic. Don't clap for me!” Joe shouts. ”I'm nothing but a lying, worthless son of a .

”Sounds like Mr. Vince has been enjoying our little party too much,” the mayor says, cutting him off.

”How about we find someone to take him home?”

Tobin's dad and another man break away from the crowd. They approach Joe like he's an injured cat.

”Let's go, Joe,” Tobin's dad says.

Joe wipes the back of his mouth with his hand. He looks up at the mayor. ”You know what I did. You know what I gave up to become the 'G.o.d of Rock.' And I'm not the only one here guilty of the same sins.” His gaze moves from the mayor and locks on to me. ”And now the devil has come to collect.” I take a step back, letting go of Daphne's hand.

Did he really just say what I thought he said? Was he outing me in front of Daphne and the entire town?

But how would he even know who I am? What I've come here for?

Tobin's father makes a move to grab Joe, but Joe takes a swing at him-too slowly-and Tobin's father moves easily out of the way. Joe lurches forward, stumbling. He falls onto the asphalt. I hear the crunch of gla.s.s under him as he tries to break his fall with the hand that was holding the beer bottle. More camera flashes go off.

”Joe!” Daphne says, jumping down from the stage. I follow her without even thinking.

He tries to push himself up, but then looks, bewildered, down at his hand. It's covered in blood.

”b.l.o.o.d.y, b.u.g.g.e.ring h.e.l.l,” he says, holding his injured hand. ”How did that happen?”

”What were you thinking?” Daphne asks. I can't tell if her question is directed at Joe or at Tobin's father for inadvertently causing Joe's fall.

Joe blinks up at her. ”Daphne, when did you get here, love?”

”He's drunk out of his mind,” I say. ”He probably has no idea what he just did. Or even what he's said.”

At least I hope that's true. Or at least that Daphne will believe it.

More camera flashes go off as Daphne grabs some napkins from a nearby table. She presses them into Joe's hand. The blood soaks right through.

A Keres would be able to smell that much blood from a mile away.

”There's a first-aid tent at the other end of the street,” Tobin's father says.

”No. We need to get him out of here,” I say, helping Joe up. I need to get him as far away from this crowd as possible.

”Good thinking,” Daphne says. ”I wouldn't be surprised if pictures from this little event end up in the newspapers tomorrow.”

”I'll take him home,” I say to her. Or at least to an area out of sight that will be easy to defend. ”Stay here with your friends. Go find Tobin.”

”Yeah, right,” Daphne says. ”I'm not sticking you with Joe. He's my dad.”

”You called me dad,” Joe says. He reaches out and runs his fingers down her face, almost poking her in the eye.

”I already regret it,” she says, looping his arm around her shoulder.

”Really, Daphne, I can handle it.”

”I'm taking him home,” she says. ”Don't argue with me.”

A rotten egg smell wafts by on a breeze. It could be from one of the garbage receptacles placed around the festival or it could be a Keres. . . .

There's no time for arguing.

”We'll both go,” I say.

”Stop the car,” Joe moans from the backseat. Daphne had ridden her bike to the festival and Joe was in no condition to walk the lake paths-nor did I want him out in the open-so the three of us had piled into my Tesla.

”We're almost home,” Daphne says tersely. I can feel the anger radiating off her. I'm glad it's not directed toward me.

”Stop. The. Bleeding. Car.”

I slam on the brakes. Joe is out the door before we even come to a complete stop. He stumbles onto the gra.s.s and I hear the sounds of his heaving onto the gravel path that leads to one of the lakefront beaches.