“I honestly don’t know. We always build cases slowly but generally there’s some definite evidence or clear witness testimony to tell us we’re headed in the right direction, at least. With Edwin, it’s all ambiguous.”

Kayleigh lowered her voice. “It’s all too much, Kathryn. I’m really thinking of canceling the show on Friday. My heart is totally not in it.”

“And your father’s okay with it?” Dance asked, because she’d noted the swivel of her eyes toward Bishop Towne and the decrease in volume when she used the word “canceling.”

“Yes,” she said, but uncertainly. “He seems to agree but then he goes on like I never mentioned anything. ‘Sure, I understand. But if you don’t cancel, when you play “Drifting,” I think you should modulate up to D for the third and fourth verses.’”

She waved her hand, indicating where they sat. “Remember what I was telling you after you recorded the group at Villalobos’s? This is all the stage I’d like, my front porch. Cook big dinners, get fat. Play for the kids and family, have a bunch of Mary-Gordons and Henrys. Don’t know why I picked that name. I don’t know a single Henry in the world.”

“You could have a family and still be a pro.”

“I don’t see how. That kind of life takes its toll.”

“Loretta Lynn did it.”

“Nobody’s Loretta Lynn. She’s one of a kind.”

Dance had to agree.

And yet despite Kayleigh Towne’s protests, she suddenly dug into her pocket and pulled out a pen and small pad of lined paper and jotted words and musical notes.

“A song?”

“‘Just can’t stop.’”

“You have to write your songs, you mean?”

Kayleigh laughed. “Well, that’s true. But what I mean is, that’s a line that just occurred to me. ‘Just can’t stop … spending hours … with you.’ First it was ‘spending time with you,’ but it needed the other syllable in ‘hours.’ I’ll write it up tonight.”

“The whole song?”

“Hank Williams said any song that takes more than twenty minutes to write isn’t going to be any good. Sometimes it takes me a day or two but for that one, it’s pretty much done.”

She hummed a very hummable few bars.

“You record it, I’ll buy it,” Dance said. “You …” Her voice faded as lights appeared through the trees. A car was approaching slowly.

Kayleigh stiffened. She whispered, “It can’t be him. I mean, it can’t. We weren’t followed. I’m sure not. And when we left, Edwin wasn’t at my place. He doesn’t even know I’m not there.”

Though Dance wasn’t so sure about that. It made sense for her to come here largely so she wouldn’t be alone—Bishop always had plenty of his crew around. And they could hope Edwin wouldn’t figure it out but he’d proved persistent, to say the least, when it came to finding Kayleigh’s whereabouts.

The lights seemed to stop, then continue on as if the driver wasn’t sure of the route.

Or didn’t want to be seen.