Maybe I’m just rusty, I tell myself, trying not to panic. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe I’m just preoccupied. But underneath, I know it’s something else.

Because I haven’t written a song in days, either. Or I should say a song hasn’t come to me. This isn’t normal. Three empty days is not normal.

I try to clear my mind, let a melody come to me, but all I can see is that woman in the basement studio, holding out her silver pen.

I didn’t grab that pen. I didn’t sign, and now I’m being punished.

All the things you love. One by one. Oh, Anders. . . .

I get up so fast Yvonne thumps onto the carpet.

I need to talk to someone. Someone who knows at least part of what I know.

I glance at the alarm clock. I’m still more than an hour early for my four o’clock lesson with Flynn, but I latch Yvonne into her case and rush out to the car.

I throw the Nissan into reverse. My tires squeal as I bump out of the driveway onto the road, shifting into drive.

Flynn must have a few answers. He’s the one who set up the meeting that set off this whole goddamn chain reaction, after all. My hands clench the wheel. I’m angry at Flynn, I’m furious, even though I know this isn’t totally fair. Flynn couldn’t have known exactly how things would unfold. But he must know about the woman in the black car by now. Maybe he’ll know more than I know. He’ll do what he always does, and stay mellow, and help me step backward until everything looks smaller, more like something I can handle.

Jesus, I hope.

I haven’t even gone thirty feet from the drive when I see someone standing there, in the road.

It’s stalker girl. Thea.

She’s holding the handlebars of her old baby-blue bike. Snakes of white hair twist around her. The rest of her doesn’t move. She just stands there, in the middle of the winding country road, watching me barrel closer.

I slam on the brakes. A car horn is wailing.

After a second I realize the car horn isn’t mine. The sound is coming from behind me.

I glance in the rearview. A rusty black truck is streaking toward my bumper.

I screech to a stop.

So does the truck, just a few inches away. Through its dirty windshield, I can see two faces—Jezz and Patrick—staring down at me.

I roll down my window and crane out. “What the hell?” I shout. “You almost hit me! What are you trying to do?”

Patrick raises one hand, a little motion telling me to stay still. Then he swerves into the oncoming lane, pulling up beside me.

“Dude,” says Jezz, leaning out his own open window. “You need to back up.”

“What?” I shout back.

“Back up into your driveway,” says Jezz, loud and clear. “Somebody sabotaged your car.”

There’s a sick thump in my chest. “What?”