“How did they find out?” he asked Chandler. At the DOR’s insistence, for security, Ángel had never mentioned his last name on the podcast, and Ángel wasn’t a terribly unusual name, at least among Latino men.

“I don’t know,” she said. “We didn’t tell anyone; it makes our jobs twenty times harder.”

“Maybe someone just recognized your voice,” said Lily.

Ángel clicked another link. “Quiz: How Well Do You Really Know Ángel Cruz?” was on TigerBeat, along with the cutest of the old college pictures.

“Father of Elf-Friend Ángel Cruz Convicted of Fraud.” The Huffington Post had Victor’s Ponzi scheme plea bargain. Thankfully, they didn’t seem to know that the plea had resulted in Ángel working for the DOR and living with Oberon, but the fact that Ángel was the son of a crook was now generally known across the globe. Ángel bit his lip, looking at a blurry photograph of his father leaving the Duval County Courthouse.

How humiliated Victor must feel, having his dirty laundry splashed around like that. It wasn’t Ángel’s fault, but guilt still clotted around his heart.

Artists he’d collaborated with over the years had been quick to advertise which songs featured Ángel Cruz on guitar, perhaps hoping for a jump in sales. Including Conner Marr.

“The DOR has been getting a lot of phone calls from the media,” said Chandler. “I mean, they’ve always gotten a lot of press questions, but ever since you came along they’ve tripled.”

“What do they want?”

“Confirmation of your identity. Who you are, how you met, what your relationship is.”

Ángel looked up at Chandler. “Are your people protecting my friends and family from the, um, the paparazzi?” It seemed bizarre to use the word paparazzi in the context to his own life, but here they were. “And my brothers?”

“As much as we can,” said Chandler. “Some people will eventually talk, of course. It’s good that no one knows where you are.”

“Ángel Cruz: Oberon’s Companion Is Fiery as a Chilli Pepper.” Ángel grimaced. That was a British gossip site; the chili pepper metaphor purportedly referred to his guitar-playing, but the sexual innuendo was not subtle.

Another site cut right to the heart of the matter that all the others were dancing around: “Is Ángel Cruz Gay?” They didn’t know, but they managed to whip up an eight hundred-word think piece anyway, based on the available evidence: on the one hand, Ángel didn’t like show tunes, but on the other hand, Ángel laughed like a girl.

“Oh, and this,” said Ángel, hitting Play on a blurry online video, now a white-hot trend on Twitter. “This should answer that question. This is the gayest gig I ever played. I’ve had actual sex with men that was less gay than this gig.”