We’re not talking no one home, like he’s out of it or drowning his sorrows in booze or burying them in drugs.

He’s sober as a judge.

But he’s gone.

He opens the door right away, I come in.

He walks to the family room in the back without a word.

Lyla’s everywhere but she’s not.

There are pictures of her with Preacher that she’d framed and set around, but other pictures I remembered being there, with her mom and sisters, Audie and Lynie, Jen and Amber, the band, are gone.

This gives me a serious chill.

But she’d also decorated the place.

It’s comfortable and homey. Deep, rich colors. Total LA vibe. Kinda a mashup of mission and old-time Mexican, southwest and Native American. Interesting and a little bit edgy, not cluttered though.

Breezy.

Easy.

Lyla.

I’d spent a lot of time in that room and it wasn’t until then I realized how perfectly balanced it was between Lyla and Preacher.

He stands by the window that looks out at the pool and he’s still sayin’ nothing.

“Preacher—” I start to say.

“The band wants to go clean, the time for that is not in the middle of a tour,” he says to the window. “The time for that is when we’re home, we got time and space in our minds to see to ourselves and each other. You three goin’ through withdrawals while you’re rappin’ with DJs and journalists and havin’ your pictures taken every fuckin’ day is ludicrous. It’s dumb luck none of them cottoned on. We had a couple months left on the tour. Cut back along the way. Get your shit tight. Prepare. And, I don’t know, consider talkin’ to a doctor who could tell you how to do it right and do it healthy. Or if any one of you is that fucked up, we drop the tour and get you straight. Cold turkey was insanity.”

“That makes sense, Preach,” I tell him. “You think you coulda said that a coupla months ago?”

“I had things on my mind,” he tells me.

“You wanna share those?” I ask.

And I will admit, although he made sense, even telling you this now that I know all I know, everyone knows it, at that time, I’m beginning to get pissed.

That’s when he turns to look at me and he says, “We were the band.”

Now, I am not likin’ even a little bit that this is said in past tense.

“I know—” I start.

Then he says, “I shouldered the burden a long time, brother. I need you to do your part once. Once. And you fell down on the fuckin’ job.”

[Breathes sharply through his nose, then lifts hand to pinch the bridge and drops hand]

[Quietly] He was right.

He was goddamned right.

[After a very lengthy silence, off tape]