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Bastian and Nikko are staring at each other with the same slightly tight expression. Stone is looking at his phone.

I slow down as I approach.

“Guys?” I say. “What’s with the faces?”

Nikko looks up.

“Have you seen Fox?”

Everything in me goes cold.

“No. I… No. Not since…” I stop myself short of saying since last night.

Taylen has caught up behind me. “Check your phones,” he says. “Maybe he sent something.”

Stone is already scrolling. Bastian pulls his out. Nikko’s already looking at his screen.

He looks up at me. His mouth pulls sideways.

“Looks like Fox has done another disappearing act,” he says quietly.

The lights around the stage are still glowing. The crowd is still cheerful. The mayor is testing the microphone and someone laughs somewhere behind me. It’s all still happening.

But somewhere between Noëlle’s warm hand on mine and the words “Fox has done another disappearing act,” the whole festival has gone completely silent.

TEN YEARS AGO

FINN

The stage lights are all reds, golds, and one pool of soft blue directly on Bastian.

I’ve been standing in the same spot backstage since I was ushered in after my flight landed late in Chicago. I’ve seen my brother perform before, more times than I can count. But he’s not who my eyes keep returning to.

Fox is on the far side of the stage.

He’s on the raised platform for most of the set, half in shadow, his bass low against his hips. The stage lights catch the silver strands in his hair and turn the amber of his eyes into something warmer.

He looks like he’s performing for himself, not the crowd. They just get the benefit of being there while he loses himself to the music.

I know this song. Mik wrote it for his daughter. No one knows Kay exists, but every night, every sold-out gig, the crowd sings along to a song about a girl who changed someone’s life. The only one who will ever matter.

Fox closes his eyes for a beat when the bass line hits and something at the base of my spine goes tight. He raises his arm and his T-shirt rises, showing his toned stomach above the low rise of his black leather pants.

I am twenty-nine years old, and I am crushing on my older brother’s bandmate like a teenager.

When Bastian asked me to come to the Chicago gig before they leave for their Europe tour for the next six months, I couldn’t say no. I mean, I would never say no to my brother anyway, or to a chance to watch Hall of Fame perform live.

But I won’t lie to myself and say that watching Fox perform and having an excuse to stare at him for a few hours isn’t the reason I’m really here.

The song builds toward the chorus. Bastian throws a look over his shoulder at the drum riser and grins. Stone crashes into the cymbals. Mik lifts his guitar in the air one-handed like he’s daring the crowd to keep up.

Fox turns his head.

He looks across the stage into the shadows of the wing where I’m standing.

His eyes meet mine.

He winks.