A family.
Stability.
There are no guarantees in life but this is something I have at least a modicum of control over.
Decision made, I suddenly feel lighter.
I’ll tell the band in a little bit, right after soundcheck. We’ll have some downtime between that and the show, so I can bring it up while we eat dinner.
I head toward the dressing room just as Pete comes jogging over to me.
“Hey. Sasha sent this overnight. Said they had to sign for it at the office, so she thought it might be important.”
“Thanks.” I stare down at the envelope curiously.
The return address is for a Los Angeles law firm that looks vaguely familiar and it was sent certified mail, which can be a bit nerve-wracking. I stare at it for a bit, hoping it’s not bad news, and then slowly tear it open.
The words in front of me swim for a beat.
…writing to tell you that Mr. Thomas Bancroft passed away on Sunday…
Thomas Bancroft.
The name alone makes my chest tight and my stomach clench.
Thomas fucking Bancroft.
I try not to think about him—ever.
The man driving the truck that drove headfirst into our tour bus. Killing Clara. Joey. Rambo. Dixon. Jerry our driver. Clark our manager. Everyone but me.
And I don’t feel an ounce of sympathy or grief for the man that did it. He was drunk, twice the legal limit, and woke up after the crash with a few scratches and no memory at all of the accident. Of the people he’d killed.
Nope, I don’t give a flying fuck about him.
I can only hope that motherfucker is rotting in hell somewhere.
“Who’s Thomas Bancroft?” Pete asks, reading over my shoulder. “Were you close?”
I close my fist around the letter, crumpling it.
“Isn’t that your real name, Tommy?” Z asks, looking up from whatever he was doing on his phone.
“What?” My voice is a croak.
“It was,” Tommy says at the same time. “But I legally changed my name to Bane thirteen years ago. Why?”
“Your name was Thomas…Bancroft?” I ask, staring at him with a frown.
“I mean, that’s the name I was born with. Why?”
For a second I see red but common sense prevails as I remember that nineteen years ago, Tommy was twelve. And I was at the trial for the fortyish-year-old man that killed my band and the woman I loved. It definitely wasn’t twelve-year-old Tommy.
Except…my chest tightens all over again.
“Was Thomas Bancroft…your father?” I ask, suddenly frozen in shock and horror.
“That was his name, yes. Why?” Tommy looks confused.
