Page 97 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

“Are all the members of Carnal Sins present?” Judge Horowath asks.

Al stares down at me with disappointment etched on his face as I shake my head. “No, sir. Keith Prentiss is not here today.”

The judge frowns and looks down at the list again. “Mr. Prentiss is the sole songwriter listed on the tracks in question, is that correct?”

One of the lawyers next to Logan speaks up. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“I see,” he says, then turns back to us. “Is there any particular reason that Mr. Prentiss has chosen not to attend today’s hearing?”

Dave and James give me a look likeTake the wheel, man, and I clear my throat. “It would seem he has gone missing.”

“Missing?”

I nod. “We’ve tried to locate him, but even after searching far and wide, we haven’t been?—”

“What I think my client means to say,” Al’s lawyer jumps in, “is that the stress of these proceedings has caused significant impacts to my client’s mental state. It is possible that he has put himself in danger because he is distraught over the betrayal of a past friend.”

“More like he’s drinking himself stupid in an alley somewhere,” Logan stage-whispers.

At this, I look up, my eyes meeting Logan’s, and my whole body crackles with fury. He sits back, a smirk on his lips. He wanted everyone to hear that—wantsthe judge to think Key’s a liar and an addict.

“Well, we shall have to proceed without him for the time being,” the judge says, opening up the file in front of him. “Mr. Samuels, I apologize, but since I am unfamiliar with this kind of music, and your relationship with the band and its members, could you provide me with your account of your involvement with the band and the creation of these songs.”

“Wait,” Logan starts, glancing around the table. “We’re not doing this in a courtroom? With, like, a jury?”

The judge sighs and lowers his glasses. “Mr. Samuels, this is simply a preliminary inquiry to determine if there is enough evidence to take this to trial. We don’t roll out a whole grand jury for such simple matters unless necessary.” He gives him a hard stare. “Shall we continue?”

My lips twitch with the urge to smile. It delights me seeing Logan so beautifully chastised by this judge. I’m further comforted when the judge turns to our side of the table and says, “Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance too.”

Logan whispers something to his lawyer behind his hand, and only once he gets a nod does he sit up straighter.

“Okay, fine. I first met Keith Prentiss at the Samson Academy for Boys. I was a troubled teenager. My parents couldn’t control me and after a run-in with the law, they gave me an ultimatum: go to juvenile prison, or go to military school. But it wasn’t truly a military school, more like a cult. Religious zealots who would beat us if we didn’t recite memorized bible verses and stay in line—follow orders. They didn’t want to teach us. They wanted to brainwash us.”

I can’t help but sneak a look at him as he tells his story. To be honest, I hadn’t even known why Logan ended up at Samson Academy. I guess I never bothered to ask and he was never willing to share. Not many of us were.

“While I was constantly getting punished for not following the rules, this other boy wasn’t. He was clean cut and quiet. He never said a word back against any of the drill sergeants. Just followed every order, every rule to a tee. At first, I thought he had been there before and was already brainwashed. But then I realized that if I did what he did, I wouldn’t get punished. So I started following him around, copying his mannerisms and such, and miraculously, my time at the Academy became easier—tolerable.

“When he caught on that he was helping me, we became friends. He kept me out of trouble and I helped him with school. He had terrible grades, which was surprising because with the way he talked, you’d never suspect he was stupid. So we started helping each other. He gave me advice on how to best make the beds and stay out of trouble and I helped him write out his homework. He would dictate and I’d write. From then on, it was like finally having a friend.

“One day he told me he wanted to be a musician. He told me he planned to get out of there when he turned eighteen, and head to California. That he wanted to start a band and make metal music. Well, that sounded exactly like the kind of thing I wanted too. We worked really hard over the next few months to gain enough favor with the sergeants to let us use the guitars they had stashed in the staff house. During our free time, we sat in the bunkhouse together and jammed for as long as we could. This was how the band was formed. We didn’t have a name yet, but he played rhythm guitar and I played lead. And those seven songs are what came out of those jam sessions.”

I narrow my eyes at him. While I know he’s lying, I do actually believe that the first part of his story is true. That this is the way they really met. After all, I was the third wheel who broke them up. But what’s bullshit is how Key and Logan created the songs together. That, right there, is the first lie.

“I see,” Judge Horowath says thoughtfully. “How was the creative process split between you and Mr. Prentiss?”

At this Logan shrugs. “It’s hard to say, really. When you’re being creative like we were, it’s difficult to determine where his ideas ended and mine started. It was a fairly organic creative collaboration. He would say a line, then I would say a line, or he’d suggest a different word. I’d write everything down, so . . . fifty-fifty, I’d say.”

I can’t help the scoff that escapes my throat, and for a moment all eyes are on me. I roll my lips inward and slouch down in my seat a little.

“Right. So where do the other members present fit into the narrative?”

Logan looks at me. “Joel Thanger was another punk who showed up at the Academy. They dumped him in our bunkhouse in the middle of the night. He reminded me a lot of myself, actually. Didn’t think he belonged there. Refused to obey orders. Thought he could be a smart-ass and get away with it.”

Again . . . true.

“I found out from one of the officers that Mr. Thanger had brought a bass with him. That it was locked up in the staff house with everything else you had to earn back. I was beside myself with excitement. I thought he could round out the band. It seemed that Keith had the same idea. He was quick to show Mr. Thanger that his efforts were misplaced, and shortly after that, we had our bass player.”

“However, it became very apparent, very quickly, that they were becoming closer than I thought they would. I’d find them huddled together whispering, or playing their instruments together without me. They were even writing their own songs together. I’ll admit, it hurt.”

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