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Again.
Again and again and again, until I’m deathly sure there’s zero chance I’m mistaking anything.
Then my blood pressure spikes so hard my entire body thunders, and my fist bangs the top of my desk.
“It can’t be!” I snarl, stabbing my finger at the page.
Oh, but it is.
It says that if Party B, the artist, terminates the contract for any reason, they lose all rights to their own lyrics and music.
Worse, they also forfeit all future royalties to Party A—Vance Haydn—as compensation for damages caused by lost time and market opportunities invested in Party B by Mr. High and Mighty Fuckwit.
Additionally, the same provisions go into effect if Party A terminates the contract due to Party B’s performance being deemed “unsatisfactory.”
Guess who decides that.
Haydn, in all his diabolical wisdom and legal fuckery, crafted the perfect trap.
He uses talent up and pushes them past their breaking point. Then he drops them the second their sales dip while he’s still pulling in dollars without a single solitary penny going to the artist.
Pull that shit enough times—even with artists who aren’t producing music or promoting—and he’s got a nice fat revenue stream that keeps coming with no strings attached.
All while keeping a chokehold on rights that let others do covers of the dropped clients’ music to line his own pockets.
Everything for him.
Nothing for the talent he’s screwed over.
Satan’s legal chief couldn’t have dreamed up such a heist.
And he’s worded it to seem like a perfectly reasonable risk to a hopeful, starry-eyed amateur. They can’t fathom this man offering them the world, only to turn around and screw them over based on a self-serving interpretation of “unsatisfactory.”
Even an inexperienced contract lawyer might get bamboozled without a whole team deciphering this steaming pile of doublespeak.
This—oh, fuck.
This is how he got Barry.
I never saw the contract before he signed it. He was too eager.
Barrett must have figured it out on his own, confronted Haydn, and lost everything for it. Because of course bucking Haydn’s authority would be considered unsatisfactory.
Steam shoots through my blood.
Now, §14.2 makes a terrible sense.
The whole time.
The whole fucking time.
Barrett was trying to tell someone all along.
No matter what the oxygen deprivation did to his mind, no matter how many brain cells had atrophied and died, this betrayal stuck in his memory.
He might not even remember why it was important, but he knew that it was.
And I looked right past it.
For years, I wrote it off as nothing but his own broken confusion.
I’ve been trying so hard to avenge Barry for so long—and he’s the one who delivered the key.
Eureka.
This is what I need to expose Haydn for the predatory motherfucker he is.
It’s more than I could’ve ever dreamed.
So heavy and crushing my lungs sag, turning to cement.
Not only is this proof of the damage he’s caused—enough to sink him with dozens of solid lawsuits and goddamn if I won’t pay for representation for every single one—but it’s the path to justice for everyone he’s ever screwed over.
They might be able to get their music back, the compensation they’re owed, their reputations...
Hell, maybe their souls.
It’s too perfect.
The catch is, I can’t use it at all.
I groan, thunking my head against the desk.
This is going to be big. Mammoth enough to bring Easterly Ribbon’s entire world crashing down, and I can’t do that to her without her knowledge and cooperation. I almost wonder if that wasn’t Milah’s trick.
If she’s testing me.
I don’t know how I’ll ever get Easterly’s consent.
The girl would rather tie me up and set me on fire than talk to me.
Still, this matters.
It matters to Callie.
It matters to me.
My Callie’s the beating heart of why I even stopped to consider how this could hurt Easterly.
And Callie would be brave enough to take the leap of faith. To reach out.
Shouldn’t I be, too?
Before I jump, I read on, searching for anything else I can use.
Anything I missed.
I’ve got a notepad of furious scribbles and a hand cramping into a claw in no time.
Frank needs to see this, I think with one eye on the clock.
While this is easily the biggest smoking gun in my life, I can’t miss taking Barry out to a show for the first time in years. I make it to the last page in record time as the minutes run out.
Where I find a Post-it stuck to the paper, written in a jagged hand, a phone number scrawled at the top and two lines below.
Put on your big boy pants and make it count, mister.
Be nice.
Don’t let me down.
I squint at it, dumbfounded, peeling it off the page and the signatures it covers.
“Milah, what are you up to?” I wonder aloud.
Only one way to find out.
With my heart in my throat, I snag my phone and punch in the number on the note, lifting it to my ear and waiting.
