“Kathryn has a great voice,” Kayleigh said, displaying five or six kinesic deception clues. Dance smiled.

A man’s voice interrupted. “Excuse me, folks. Hey, there, Kayleigh.”

It was the young man from the jukebox. Smiling, he nodded at Dance and the table and then looked down at Kayleigh.

“Hello.” The singer’s tone had gone suddenly into a different mode, bright but guarded.

“Didn’t mean to be eavesdropping. I heard there was some problem. You all right?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

Silence for a moment, the sort that means, Appreciate your interest but you can head off now.

Kayleigh said, “You’re a fan?”

“Sure am.”

“Well, thanks for your support. And your concern. You going to the concert on Friday?”

“Oh, you bet. I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You sure you’re okay?”

A pause, bordering on the awkward. Maybe Kayleigh was digesting the last sentence.

“Sure am.”

Bobby said, “Okay, friend. You take care now. We’re going to get back to lunch.”

As if the roadie hadn’t even spoken, the man said with a breathy laugh, “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Sorry,” the singer offered.

Alicia said firmly, “Ms. Towne’d like some privacy, you don’t mind.”

“Hey, Alicia,” the young man said to her.

The personal assistant blinked. Obviously she hadn’t recognized the man and would be wondering how he knew her name.

Then he ignored her too and laughed again, his voice high, eerie. “It’s me, Kayleigh! Edwin Sharp. Your shadow.”

Chapter 3

A LOUD BANG echoed in the restaurant as Kayleigh’s iced tea glass slipped from her grip and slammed into the floor.

The big glass landed at just the right angle to produce a sound so like a gunshot that Dance found her hand moving to the place where her Glock pistol—presently locked away in her bedside safe at home—normally rested.

Eyes wide, breath rasping in and out of her lungs, Kayleigh said, “You’re … you’re … Edwin.”

Her reaction was one approaching panic but, with a brow furrowed in sympathy, the man said, “Hey, there, Kayleigh, it’s okay. Don’t you worry.”

“But …” Her eyes were zipping to the door, on the other side of which was Darthur Morgan and, if Dance was right, his own pistol.

Dance tried to piece it together. Couldn’t be a former boyfriend; she’d have recognized him earlier. Must be an inappropriate fan. Kayleigh was just the sort of performer—beautiful, single, talented—to have stalker problems.

“No embarrassment you didn’t recognize me,” Edwin said, bizarrely reassuring her and oblivious to her distress. “Since I sent you that last picture of me I lost a bit of weight. Yep, seventy-three pounds.” He tapped his belly. “I didn’t write you about it. Wanted it to be a surprise. I read Country Week and EW, see the pictures of you with some of those boys. I know you like the slimmer builds. Didn’t think you’d appreciate a chubby. And got myself a twenty-five-dollar haircut. You know how men are always talking about changing but they never do. Like your song. I wasn’t going to give you a Mr. Tomorrow. I’m a Mr. Today.”