Darcy Richards sat back on the leather sofa and watched the neon sign flash on and off, announcing his appearance at the Burlington Arena. While he concentrated on the sign, his road manager, Andrew Riley, had been pounding on the door for the last half hour.

Someone said something in his ear, but the words made no sense. In fact, there wasn’t much that made sense in his life anymore, except for the music. And he knew that if ever there came a time when he got up there on that stage and he couldn’t hear the music anymore, he’d accept the fact that he was completely bankrupt.

A hand moved over his thigh, and Darcy closed his eyes for a second before turning to look at yet another stranger. This one had the bluest eyes.

“You want me to open the door? Andrew is still trying to get in.”

Darcy raised his hips so that he could do up his jeans.

“Darcy?” That was Andrew calling him. “Darcy, open this God damned door now.”

The stranger got up from the love seat. “You want me to come back after the show?”

“No, what I want is for you to open the door before Andrew breaks it down, then get the hell out of here.”

The door opened, and the stranger was gone.

Andrew came barreling into the dressing room, his cheeks red as fire. He was ranting. Nothing new there. Darcy got to his feet and stretched.

“Your band has been out there improvising on stage for twenty minutes,” Andrew accused. “There are only so many God damned drum solos the crowd will put up with.” He paused, sniffed the air. “This place reeks of pot and sex. What in hell were you doing, fucking around with some groupie in here?” His gaze went to the half empty bottle of whiskey lying on its side on the table with the cap screwed on. Andrew reached over and sat it upright.

Darcy shrugged. “So, blow me.”

“Looks like I’m a few minutes too late for that one.” Andrew scoffed.

“You got jokes.” Darcy eyed him, giving him a tight smile. “Anyway, I’m ready now. Let’s do this. And you shouldn’t get so worked up over everything. You’re going to have a stroke.”

The walk through the darkened corridors of backstage seemed dreamlike. He done it countless times before, another arena, another crowd. He could hear the fans. It sounded like a roar in his ears. It was only when he stepped out on the stage, met with the bright lights and the countless indistinguishable faces of screaming fans that he came back to life. He heard the music, and everything seemed to fall into place. The adrenalin pumped, the sweat poured into his eyes, stinging them blind, and he rode the waves of screaming audience. That still meant something to him, thank God.

The show went over by almost an hour. The band members hated it when he kept on going. They were tired, but Darcy would just keep on singing and playing his guitar. He could have kept right on performing until he dropped. When Darcy left the stage, his mood would sink. He’d feel like he literally had to drag himself to the dressing room. He’d wonder how he’d get through the night. Booze, drugs, sex with strangers? All that was getting rather old, he was growing immune to those medicines.

Ever since he’d found out that Maddy was dead, he felt as if he’d been caught in some kind of vice, squeezed so tight it felt like something was cutting off his air supply.

He thought about calling his father—but to say what? Dad. I’m so sorry. Maybe he should have called Mitchell, but he didn’t have the balls to do that, especially after Mitchell had put his twin sister in the ground.

It had been hard to feel any joy about anything anymore, and when he did, he believed he didn’t deserve it. What he’d done was unforgivable, but if he’d stayed in Devon, he would have been the one lying in Devon Cemetery. He reminded himself every day what a bastard and a coward he was, and if his fans knew what he’d done ten years ago, maybe they wouldn’t come to his concerts or buy his records anymore. And how could he ever explain why he’d done it? It would cause too much pain. No one wanted to hear that stuff anyway.

The day he heard about the death of Madison West, he’d been at yet another party in Hollywood. It was two years ago. Some woman he didn’t recognize had walked up to him, seeking an autograph on the jacket of the bands’ newest CD.

“You don’t remember me, do you, Darcy?” The woman eyed him as he scribbled his name. She was a woman in her forties, slim and quite pretty.

“Ah, no. I’m sorry.” He smiled at her. “We’ve met before?” he asked, handing her the signed CD.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m Melanie Frost. I used to work for the Devon Daily News. It was quite some time ago, and you were just a kid. I’m a publicist in Hollywood now.”

“Oh.” Darcy was stunned. He’d never imagined running into someone out there from his hometown in Berkshire County, Massachusetts. “When did you leave Devon?”

“Oh goodness, eleven years ago.” She smiled at him. “You are so handsome.”

He murmured his thanks, breathing an inner sigh of relief. She wouldn’t have known what happened. He looked around. He didn’t want to talk about Devon.

“Horrible what happened to the West girl,” she said, shaking her head, just as Darcy was about to excuse himself and walk away.

He looked at her. “West girl? You mean, Maddy, Maddy West?”