A story of love and sacrifice.

This is all Michael. He made this bookmark and he highlighted this section.

It’s a message.

He wants me to give myself up. Diane must be gone – Cat said something about her taking a flight. Michael is calling me back with the strongest bait he could get.

If I give myself up now, he might let Liberty go.

Liberty

Wow.

Michael’s music studio is … wow.

I suck in a breath.

‘You like it?’ Michael asks.

I nod and nod. ‘Who wouldn’t? It’s amazing.’

‘Diane isn’t too interested,’ Michael chuckles. ‘Not her sort of thing. But you’re a musician. You get it.’

I walk around, hands running over instruments and recording equipment. ‘Totally amazing.’

The space is open plan, like Peter Gabriel’s recording studio. No separation between the sound engineer equipment and the recording area. The mixing desks are within the rehearsal room. Not that I’ve ever been to Peter Gabriel’s studio, but I’ve seen YouTube videos.

I feel like I’m in a playground.

Skywalker sniff, sniff, sniffs at the floor, suspicious of its texture.

‘It’s a great space, isn’t it?’ says Michael, closing the door behind us. ‘I’m guessing you’ve never been in a real music studio before?’

‘Never. My mother isn’t keen on me exploring that particular avenue. This is like … amazing.’

‘Better than you were expecting?’

‘A hundred times better.’ My boots squeak on the floor. ‘You have everything. You’ve got a TR808 …’

‘Oh, yeah. Of course. I’m a musician who also happens to be a millionaire. What else would I spend my money on?’

I look around the studio. ‘Can I record something?’

‘Don’t you want to wait until the rest of your band are here?’

‘Nope. I want to play around with all this stuff right now.’

Michael laughs. ‘If it means I get to spend more time with you, you can do anything you like. You can even have a rock and roll moment and smash a guitar.’

‘As if I would. I’d never hurt an instrument. It would be sacrilegious.’

‘Let’s get everything set up then,’ says Michael, going to a mixing deck and flicking switches.

I grab a guitar.

Something happens when I play music. It’s like being carried away. Time just … goes. Before I know it, a lot of time has passed. We’ve recorded three of my songs, and I’m still freestyling, messing around with the sounds.

‘I’ll tell you one thing, Liberty,’ says Michael, leaning back in a white swivel chair. ‘You’re the best thing I’ve heard in a long time. A very long time. And that guitar suits you down to the ground.’

‘It’s the coolest guitar ever.’ I’m holding Joan Jett’s guitar of choice.

‘You want that guitar?’ says Michael. ‘It’s yours.’

‘No way. You mean it? No way.’