Page 50 of Veil of Silence

For now, Austin got into his SUV and started the engine.

Nora buckled her seat belt. “Where exactly is this place?”

“Outside Knoxville. Industrial park off I-40.”

“That sounds glamorous.”

“Apparently the music business isn’t all sequins and tour buses.”

She gave him a sideways look. “You know absolutely nothing about Southern Gospel, do you?”

“I know enough to recognize a quartet when I see one.”

“That’s not the flex you think it is.” Despite that, she couldn’t help but chuckle.

Austin pulled onto the road, and for the next several miles, they drove in silence.

What had Dad discovered?

Whatever it was, it had killed him.

Austin intended to find out what had happened.

Southern Heritage Records was exactly what Nora had expected.

The building sat at the far end of a small industrial complex wedged between an HVAC company and a place that sold commercial flooring. A faded sign above the door featured a mountain, a microphone, and enough gold lettering to make up for the location.

Austin parked, and Nora stared at the building. “I take back what I said about glamorous.”

“Too late.”

Inside, things improved—though barely. The lobby walls were covered with framed album covers, publicity photos, concert posters, and gold records that Nora suspected weren’t actually gold. A glass display case held CDs, old cassette tapes, and what appeared to be a bedazzled microphone.

A man emerged through a door behind the reception desk carrying an oversized steel mug. He was somewhere in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, with silver hair brushed straight back and a pair of red cowboy boots.

He stopped when he saw her. “Well, I’ll be. Look who just walked in.”

Nora knew that tone. It meant someone recognized her, though she didn’t recognize them.

“If it isn’t Nora Loveless,” he added.

“That’s me.” She smiled politely, bracing herself for wherever the conversation would go.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

She frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded. Just kidding, sweetheart. I’m Roscoe Pritchard. I used to engineer sessions over at Mountain Sound back when you and your sisters were still singing and traveling.”

Vague memories of recording sessions clicked into place. Roscoe had been thinner then, with dark hair and an equally dramatic personality.

“Roscoe. Yes. I remember now.” In fact, she was nearly certain he’d been at their album release party the night Christian disappeared.

That wasn’t unusual. It seemed like half the town had been there.

“Thank goodness.” He wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “I was about to rethink my entire career.”

Nora laughed despite herself. The man had charisma. She’d give him that.