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When I cleared the helicopter, I straightened up and looked around.
We had landed on the top of a building, even though it only seemed like it was one or two stories. I could see that there was a WS painted in the center of a circle on the helipad, in the same font as had been stitched into the seats.
WS for Wylie Sanders. I had just arrived at a rock star’s house. And my determination to be unfazed by any of this went out the window as I looked around and was immediately fazed.
As I tried to take it all in—not easy—I understood why Sarah the paralegal had called this a compound. Because house really wouldn’t have been enough to fit all that was in front of me. There was a second building a ways away from the building I was currently standing on top of, and this seemed to be the main structure. It was an enormous, sprawling mansion, two stories, all glass and weathered wood. There was a huge pool, and the entire property was ringed with palm trees. It looked like most of the lights in the main building were on, the light spilling out onto the massive lawn that I just hoped was artificial grass—because Vegas. Behind the main house were a series of smaller structures that looked like they had been constructed to resemble mini versions of the bigger house. I had no idea what they were, but there were five of them. Guesthouses? I was just gobsmacked by the scale of it all—our whole house in Raven Rock probably could have fit into this helipad, with room to spare.
“Hello!” I turned around and saw two people standing just off the helipad—one guy, one girl, both in their twenties. They were both wearing khakis and half-zip black pullovers that had WS stitched on them in the same font from the helicopter and helipad. “Hey, Rusty,” the guy said to Russell, as the girl gave me a nod and walked around to the back of the helicopter. “Welcome home.”
“Hi, Kendrick,” Russell said, giving him a smile. But I could see that Rusty had annoyed him. But then a second later, this annoyed me. I barely knew this guy—how was I intuiting what his unspoken feelings were? He gestured to me. “This is Darcy—”
“Darcy Milligan,” the guy—Kendrick—said, giving me a crisp nod. “We got the full download from Bronwyn. Nice to meet you.”
“Bronwyn?”
“My dad’s publicist.” It sounded like it pained Russell to say each of those words. “This is Kendrick, that’s Bella—” He gestured to the girl who was now emerging from the other side of the helicopter, carrying my tent and duffel bag. She gave me a wave with her free hand.
“No,” I said, taking a step closer to her. “I can get that—”
“No worries,” she said cheerfully, not stopping. “I’ll just bring them into the main residence for you while you guys meet with C.J. in SNF.”
“Yes,” Kendrick said, lifting up an iPad and scrolling through it. “C.J.’s en route now. Shall we?”
“I…” I looked for Bella, who had already disappeared. I didn’t like that my stuff was suddenly gone, but what was I supposed to do about it?
“Great,” Kendrick said, as though I’d just agreed with him. He typed something on his iPad, then nodded at us and walked toward a door at the far end of the helipad.
I followed him—it turned out the door wasn’t a door, but an elevator, and we all stepped inside to go down one floor. I looked at Russell as we descended. He was staring resolutely at the floor, like he was trying to pretend none of this was happening.
My head was spinning as I tried to take it all in—the fact that Russell had grown up with this. Staff with iPads escorting you around, helicopters and main residences and publicists. I couldn’t even fathom it.
The doors opened and we stepped out. It seemed like we had walked into an office building—there was a lobby-type area with couches and a coffee table, and then offices behind glass doors running down the hallway.
I blinked, feeling a little bit like Alice down the rabbit hole. I had thought we were going to Wylie Sanders’s house—why did it suddenly look like we were in my dad’s accountant’s office? Even though his accountant didn’t have a collection of bass guitars lined up in the waiting room.
“Sorry,” I said to Kendrick. “But—where are we? I mean…” I gestured to the hallway, the couches, the offices, all of it.
“This is the Wylie Sanders management office,” Kendrick said easily. “Where all Mr. Sanders’s business operations are handled. Legal, publicity, accounting, touring, development…”
“Right,” I faintly.
“This way,” Kendrick said cheerfully as he headed down the hallway, swiping on his iPad as he went.
I followed Russell and Kendrick, trying to take in as much as I could, but it was all a little overwhelming. Most of the offices were dark, but even so, through the glass doors, I could see Wylie Sanders and Nighthawks merchandise and posters and pictures in all of them. Framed gold and platinum records lined the walls, along with blown-up album covers showing the sales figures in different countries, and pictures of Wylie and the band—in all its incarnations—everywhere I turned. What I’d thought were just black stripes on the beige carpet were, I could see now, music notes. I couldn’t read music enough to tell, but they seemed specific enough that I was sure I was probably walking on one of the Nighthawks songs. I slowed my feet as I passed a glass-front cabinet that was filled with awards. I felt my mouth drop open as I looked at them—Grammys and Golden Globes and VMA Moon Men.
I knew even as I stared that there was a lot I was missing. And in that moment, as I made myself walk away from the trophy case, I felt sharply just how much my dad would have loved to see it. What he wouldn’t have given to have been there—he would have been in heaven. If my phone had been charged, I wouldn’t have cared if it seemed gauche or if Kendrick got mad at me. I would have taken every picture that I could to show him.
But of course, if my phone had been charged, I wouldn’t have been here. None of this would have happened.
“Here we are,” Kendrick said, stopping in front of a darkened conference room. SATURDAY NIGHT FALLS was written on the sign just outside it—the name of one of the Nighthawks’ biggest hits. He opened the door, switched on the light, and I blinked.
It looked like a normal conference room—ergonomic chairs, large screen at one corner of the room. But unlike a regular conference room, there wasn’t a table in the center of all the chairs. Instead, there was a large slab of rusty metal on legs that seemed to be standing in for a table. Starline was written on it in looping script. I just stared at it, but neither Russell or Kendrick seemed startled by this—but then, of course, they probably wouldn’t be. Maybe they were used to pieces of rusted steel serving as their conference room tables, but I certainly was not.
Kendrick pushed open a stainless-steel cabinet in the corner of the room—which was apparently a fridge—and pulled out three cans of sparkling water. He set them down in the center of the table, then straightened up. “C.J. will be here shortly,” he said, swiping on his tablet. “Security said they just had a car pull up to the gatehouse, so probably no more than five.”
“Okay,” Russell said with a nod. “Thanks, Kendrick. Um…” He hesitated, then took a deep breath before speaking. “Is my dad…”
Kendrick nodded. “He knows you’ve landed. And as soon as you’re done with C.J., he wants a word at the house.”
