The lights shift to a dark red glow, a hazy smoke rising from the edges of the stage. The intro track pulses through the floor beneath my boots as the crowd screams. I step into the spotlight and they lose control.
My fingers wrap around the mic stand and I hold on as if it’s the only thing keeping me on the ground.
I scan the crowd out of instinct—knowing I won’t see her even if sheishere. Not with these lights. Not in a venue this big.
Behind me, the first chords ring out.
I lean into the mic.
“This one’s calledCollapse Into You,” I say. “And this is for you, if you’re listening.”
Chapter forty-three
"Phone" - Witt Lowry/GJAN
Johanna
Grayson, the fuckingidiotthat he is, looks like he’s fighting for his life on stage.
They’re only halfway through the set, but it feels like something legendary. The Miami show had been electric, but this… this is different. The guys are locked in, tight as hell, and the crowd is going wild right along with them.
If I hadn’t known Grayson my whole life, I wouldn’t have seen it. Wouldn’t have recognized the way the pain is bleeding intoevery lyric, every scream. The way he grips the mic stand like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He’s singing like it hurts.
I stand in the wings with Jake and Rylee, trying hard not to show how desperately I’m scanning every face that passes us. Still no sign of her.
I don’t understand.
I could’veswornshe’d be here.
I didn’t think I’d beenthatwrong about her.
I check my phone again.
Still nothing.
With a breath I don’t want to admit is shaky, I shove it back into my pocket and force myself to focus on the stage. I have to be ready. If she isn’t coming, I have to figure out how the hell I’m going to explain it to my brother—how I’ll have to watch him break all over again.
Then it starts ringing, as if on cue.
A number I don’t recognize with an Austin area code.
My stomach drops, and I step away from Jake and Rylee, ducking behind a curtain for some privacy.
“Hello?”
“Is this Johanna Harris?”
The voice is nearly drowned out by sirens and shouting in the background. I press the phone harder to my ear.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“This is Officer Montoya with the Austin Police Department. Yours was one of the last numbers dialed on the phone belonging to Mia Alexander. Do you know how we can get in touch with her emergency contact?”
My breath catches. My entire body locks, as if my knees are going to give out underneath me. I reach for the nearest support beam to keep myself upright.
“Mia… she’s my…” I try to gather myself enough to put together a coherent answer to his question as I look out onstage. “She’s my brother’s girlfriend. He would be her emergency contact, but he’s… unavailable at the moment. What happened?”
“Details are fuzzy, but from what we understand, she was on her way to Moody Center from the airport when she was run off the road by paparazzi chasing her vehicle. Miss Alexander is on route to the nearest major trauma center now.”
