Page 12 of The Roads We Follow

“That would be my guess, yes. At the moment, Nick feels slighted by Willow House, so it’s possible I might be able to eke out more information from him if he gets wind of anything else, but he and I both know the editor in charge. She’s well-known for her shrewd business dealings and targeted subject matters.”

Perspiration gathers at my neck from the oppressive heat, and yet an icy chill licks up my spine at his words. This can’t be happening. Not now.

“I’m sorry, Raegan. I wish there was something more I could give you on this.” He sighs and hesitates. “Do you know anyone close enough to your family who would be willing to sell them out?”

Immediately, a face etched in smug disregard for any of the sins he’s committed against my family materializes in my mind.

Peter San Marco.

Just the thought of him makes me want to scream. Hasn’t he taken enough from us—from Hattie? He won the lawsuit money, not to mention the shared custody he fought for and the entire summer with his kids and girlfriend in Greece.

“Possibly” is the only reply I can form back to Chip. “What can be done at this point?”

Chip goes quiet. “Not much, I’m afraid. Even if you uncovered the author’s identity and tried to negotiate with them, there would still be a binding contract between the author and the publishinghouse—in this case, Willow Creek Press. It would be a massive and costly legal undertaking to break it, especially considering the kind of resources they’ve already forked out. The fact that your mother has never collaborated on a book deal tells me the publisher must believe their source is solid enough to create a mass amount of sales, especially given her recent spike in popularity.”

My hope deflates. “It’s pretty much the worst-case scenario, then.”

“The length some people are willing to go for money is truly despicable.”

Not money,I think. Peter has money thanks to the massive lawsuit he won after Mama’s song went viral. If he’s the one behind this, it’s personal.

I think back to when Adele was appointed the CEO of Farrow Music Productions after our father’s death, leaving Peter in the same position he’d worked at in the legal department since he married Hattie.

Is it power he wants? Retribution?

“Do you know when this ... this book is supposed to be released?”

“Nick said there wasn’t a release date specified on the paperwork he was sent, but I’ll do my best to find out. It has to be recorded somewhere. The world of editorial is relatively small, and we’re a surprisingly connected bunch. Dirty, underhanded deals like this tarnish the integrity of an industry many of us are working to improve. The best we can hope for is that the timing of this release will be overshadowed by something more deserving.”

And yet, even with his conversational push toward optimism, I feel the distinct lack of hope at nearly every angle I consider. “I appreciate you telling me, Chip. I know you didn’t have to do that.” Especially considering he has no professional tie to me whatsoever.

“It was the right thing to do.” Another pause. “Take care, Raegan. I’ll reach out again if I hear something more.”

The instant our call ends, a barrage of unknowns hit me at once. I don’t want to believe the author is Peter for numerous reasons, butwho else would be conniving enough to write something salacious about my mother? And who on earth would even be able to? Anyone with personal connection or access to our family has already signed their soul away in nondisclosure agreements via Adele.

Adele.

My sister will be here in less than an hour.

True, unadulterated panic fills me as I try to imagine how I’ll tell her. I pace the length outside Mama’s infinity pool, which feels as never-ending as my anxiety, before I make the distinct mental switch to go into storytelling mode. A big glob of scary details always feels a bit less overwhelming when I think of them as the plot points in a story. It reveals the things I know, but more importantly, the things I don’t know yet.

If I were to boil Chip’s update into a story synopsis, the plot would be about a secret book deal with unknown content that may or may not have to do with Luella Farrow, written by an anonymous author and set to be published on an unknown date. It’s far from a compelling story, and there’s no way Adele will be satisfied with that level of information. She’ll demand more, which I don’t have and won’t be able to acquire with only minutes to spare before we spend the next fourteen days together on a bus.

After several long, cleansing exhales, the Armageddon-level crisis resizes to one I can pack up and take on the road with me. But the plain truth is, it would be reckless to pull the fire alarm on this without filling in some of the vital plot holes first.

At a quarter past ten, I push all thoughts of the tell-all into a mental file markedLaterand rap on the bathroom door, informing Hattie of the time, as she still needs to take her luggage down to the bus before Adele arrives with her proverbial clipboard. Honestly, for a woman who’s been walking around in the same Oreo-encrusted gray T-shirt for the better part of a week, spending an hour in the bathroom seems a bit overkill for the start of a road trip.

“Hattie?” I knock again. “Adele just texted. She’s on her way. You should probably move your bags down to the bus.”

“Almost finished in here. Did Jana drop our driver off yet? Mama said they were headed to pick him up a while ago. Seems odd that the driving company wouldn’t drop him off.” Hattie’s tone is so normal sounding it almost makes me forget her sobs on my shoulder last night after she hung up with Aiden and Annabelle. They’d arrived in Greece with Peter two days ago and were yammering away at all the gifts Francesca’s family had given them. “Also, isn’t loading the bus a job for our driver?”

“I don’t know a thing about him or the company he works for.” Driver vetting is not in my jurisdiction of family responsibilities. I might have been in charge of securing the original tour bus for Mama—with Adele’s approval—but she’s big on checking credentials of contracted employees herself. “I took my luggage down last night.” The same thing I suggested Hattie should do in order to keep the peace this morning.

“Would you mind taking mine down for me? Please? I really can’t handle an Adele-lecture on how much luggage I’m bringing.”

I rumple my brow. “How much luggageareyou bringing?”

“Only two bags,” she answers quickly. “I consolidated this morning.”

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