Page 3 of Last Chorus

Sophie’s expression crumples. Matt’s hardens defensively, his pale eyes impossibly bright. “No, she’s not,” he answers.

A thousand questions crowd my mind—what, why, how—but what comes out is, “I’m assuming you’ve talked to Rye and Lily?”

They nod, and Sophie says softly, “They’ve tried.We’vetried. But she’s…” She trails off, a vacancy in her eyes I’m all too familiar with. Matt puts his arm around her and she leans into his side.

“No one can get through to her,” Matt informs me. “Even knowing what fame can do to people, it’s surreal. She’s like a different person.”

I think of the last time I saw Evangeline, in a media clip last week. She was walking into a restaurant in Los Angeles with her boyfriend. In the five seconds I managed to watch the video, I’d been focused on how much I wanted to rip his fake-tanned hand off her back.

Now I force myself to confront the image ofher. Too thin. Too much makeup. High heels. Fake nails on the hand lifted toward the flashing cameras. Winning, superstar smile. Long hair tamed into perfect waves. A designer mini-dress in some bland color.

“I want my daughter back,” whispers Sophie.

The crack in my heart widens, more debris falling silently into the abyss of Evangeline’s absence.

Matt’s agonized eyes hold mine. “We need your help.Sheneeds your help.”

Potent emotion floods me—twisted, irrepressible hope at the prospect of being close to Evangeline again. Despite knowing the hope is false, it feels too fucking real. I need to recenter myself in reality. Remind myself and them of the truth I have to live with every day.

“I want to help,” I say as gently as I can. “Of course I do. But let’s be realistic here. I’m the last person on the planet she’d listen to. There’s an album that won five Grammys detailing exactly how she feels about me.”

Matt’s eyes narrow, flashing with determination and stubbornness. I see so much of Evangeline in his expression that for two seconds, I can’t fucking breathe.

“So that’s it? You’re giving up on her?”

Sophie’s head lifts, anxious eyes flying from Matt to me.

I tense. “I’m respecting her wishes—the ones she screamed at me outside your house when I came home from treatment? I’m sure you remember.” I pause, reining in the emotion that bled into my voice. “It’s been years. We’ve both moved on with our lives.”

Matt scoffs. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You still love her.” I flinch, and he goes in for the kill. “If you don’t, explain why you don’t publicly date anyone, ever. Why you stillwrite songs about her. Whythat”—his arm swings toward the painting over the fireplace—“is on the wall.”

I don’t follow the line of his finger. I haven’t looked directly at the painting since it was hung up on the day the house was finished.

I shift in my seat, my skin crawling. “I honestly don’t know what you’re asking me to do.”

“I think you do,” he challenges.

Standing, he draws Sophie to her feet. I rise, too, frustration punching through my veneer of calm.

“She won’t talk to me. I fucking tried, Matt.”

The aggression leaves his face as he sighs. “I know you did. But that was then and this is now.” He pauses. “When she does answer our calls, it’s like talking to a stranger who body-snatched our kid. But there’s one word—just one—that gets an authentic reaction from her. Even if it guarantees she hangs up on us.”

I frown, but he doesn’t make me wait.

“Your name.”

They turn toward the hallway.

“What the hell? How is that a good thing?”

Matt stops and looks back. I recoil when I see tears in his eyes. “It means she’s still in there somewhere.You’restill in there somewhere. You might be the only one who can bring her back.”

He strides down the hallway while Sophie lingers. “I’m sorry, Wilder.” She glances at Matt’s dwindling form and sighs. “We’re both a little out of our minds. Just tell me you’ll think about it? Maybe try reaching out to her again?”

She looks so heartbroken, I can’t help but nod. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” She smiles softly before following Matt.

---