Page 29 of The Roads We Follow

Adele’s white-noise machine is turned up so loud I can’t even hear myself cough as I clear the sleep from my throat and peel back the thick black fabric to peek out. Adele’s curtain is open, her bed made with a gray and white down comforter and matching pillowcase. She must have left her sound machine on for the rest of us. Micah’s privacy curtain is closed, but seeing as the bus is moving, it’s safe to assume he’s behind the wheel. I slide my head out just enough to glance at the bunk above mine. Hattie is still up there. I know this because her socked foot is sticking into the narrow passageway between bunks. At least I’m not the last one up—not that I’m tryingto impress anyone with my promptness, seeing as Micah said the majority of the morning would be spent crossing through Arkansas. Adele might not enjoy Mama’s daily surprise destination plan, but I’m enjoying the spontaneity more than I expected.

I search for my phone under my pillow and pull it out, guessing the hour to be around eight when it’s actually nearly nine. Before I have enough time to evaluate if I should be ashamed of myself, I notice the text notifications on my phone.

Chip—Fog Harbor Books:

I sent you an email from my personal account. Please read it in a private place and don’t forward it on to anyone else. If I can do more for you, I will.

My stomach is empty, but I have that sinking sensation in my core like I’m going to be sick. I brace myself as I tap into my inbox and pull up his email.

Raegan,

I hope you’ll see my text first, but just in case, please only read this attachment in a private location, and please delete this email as soon as you’ve read it. I broke more than one rule to get this to you, but I thought maybe if you had a piece of real evidence you might be able to identify the author behind the ghostwriter. I’ve had no luck on that part yet. For the sake of my source, I won’t disclose how I came about this excerpt.

Chip

My fingers are shaking as I note the file name:Luella Farrow: Lies to Legend. A true story offriends, family, fame, and fraud. I click into the attachment.

Proposal by: Anonymous

Proposed Word Count: 75,000

Sample Chapters: Included

I’m so disoriented by the title that I scroll to the end of the document for context before I attempt to read a single sentence. There’s a short summary at the top promising exclusive information on Mama’s early history in music, followed by an account of her personal and professional mistakes, milestones, and failures, and the fraud that’s long plagued Farrow Music Productions.

My stomach lurches as I read the attached three sample chapters.

Fire fuels my veins as I read an exaggerated tale of how my mother left Idaho as a poor nineteen-year-old young woman and embarked on a reckless dream with little more than a guitar, an orphaned friend, and a stunning talent which, according to the author, she used to hitchhike her way across the country and do whatever it took to find fame in Nashville. A gross misrepresentation.

In these short early chapters there are some details that ring true, others that are mostly true, and still others that are blatant lies. Despite myself, I have to admit that the writing is decent, even if it feels generic and soulless. I read on, mentally filtering through a narrow list of suspects who might have enough intimacy with my family to know any of these early memories—true or not. Peter, unfortunately, still remains at the top.

What strikes me most, other than the audacity of someone who would willingly sell out my mother for money, is how none of us had any clue this was happening right under our noses. I think of all the times I researched late into the night in search of a single detail I needed in order to finish a scene or add to a location or character in my fiction work. How does a person go about writing an entire book about someone’s life without extensive interviews and supporting documents? I’m my mother’s daughter, for goodness’ sake, and I wouldn’t even claim to be able to write her entire story without fact-checking with the source throughout.

I’m almost to the end of the final paragraph of chapter three, the last chapter provided in the sample, when I read a sentence I’m not at all expecting, one revealing the secret wedding anniversary date of October 21, 1980, that my parents managed to keep private forover forty years. When Mama and Lynn first signed with their label, they’d agreed to certain stipulations; one of those was in regard to their marital statuses. For this reason, my parents planned a wedding in secret at the courthouse—which they never shared with the public, even after their “secret romance” made the tabloids. For the sake of Mama’s fans and her record label, my parents “got married” two years later in front of thousands. Only a select few knew of my parents’ private tradition of celebrating their real wedding anniversary by eating hot chicken at sunset.

There’s no denying it now. This is happening. Whoever the author is, it’s someone with intimate access to my mother’s history and possibly the label, as well. Someone who has likely sat at our family dining table ... or is, at the very least, close enough to someone who has.

Before I throw off my covers, I open my notes app on my phone and pound out every key phrase I might need to jog my memory in the future, and then I do as Chip asked and delete the file. It’s painful to watch it disappear from my inbox when it’s the only piece of evidence I have to go off of, but it’s the right thing to do. I have no doubt Chip risked his job—possibly more—by sending it to me in the first place.

In the tiny bathroom on board the bus, my movements are robotic as I change from my pj’s, reset my high ponytail, and brush my teeth, all while my motion sickness works in tandem with my anxiety. How exactly do I go about making an announcement that will derail not only the rest of this trip but possibly the mental health of both my sisters—one for a company she’s fought to stabilize after so much upheaval, and the other for a bully ex-husband who refuses to let her heal?

I don’t believe in hate, and yet I can’t think of a synonym that better describes what I feel at the moment for Peter San Marco.

Adele’s back is to me at the table when I approach the front lounge. The bus sways a bit on the highway, and I brace a hand to the wall for stabilization. I want to offer up a prayer for guidanceand help, but the words in my heart feel as jumbled as my nerves. All I manage is a simple,Please, God.

It’s then, as I watch my sister stretch her neck from side to side and take a drink from her green breakfast smoothie, that I see the screensaver on her open laptop. It’s a picture of her standing in front of Farrow Music Productions with the entire staff two Christmases ago, back before so many things flipped upside down. They’re all wearing Santa hats and grinning as if they could all see the bonus checks Adele would hand out moments after the shot was taken. I skim their faces, wondering which of them was fired for breaking the office confidentiality clause. At the thought, something clicks in my author brain. What if the disgruntled ex-employee Adele’s been handling has been syphoning information from the office? It’s more than likely they would have worked with Peter during his decade there—could the two be in cahoots somehow? Could the ex-employee have been a spy for Peter?

I recognize that even though the accusation has the potential to be a far greater threat to my mother and to my entire family, it’s still only speculation at this point. What if I’m wrong and I turn everybody on Peter and it’s not him? A shiver runs the length of my spine.

I need more information.

Too bad everything I need is locked inside Adele’s hard drive.

I’m just about to clear my throat and ask Adele if we can talk in private when my sister slides the laptop toward herself and banishes the festive picture for the password key with a swipe of her finger. In a split-second decision, I’m stepping closer to peer over her shoulder. My heart pounds in my ears as I watch her type CheyenneAvery04. My niece’s full name and birth year. Not a great password for a CEO to keep, but one I won’t soon forget.

I tuck the knowledge away as guilt presses in.

She starts to turn when my voice squeaks, “Morning!”

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