Lisa Harvey rocked back and forth empty-handed in her nursery glider beside a cadre of miniature zoo animals hanging from the musical mobile above the finished crib. A hand-painted nightlight cast a soft glow near one end of the darkened room bathed in lavender scent from a plug-in air freshener. “The room looks nice,” she told Stu, who entered the quiet space in his jeans and untucked shirt. A mermaid clock on the wall behind him read 2:04 a.m.

Stu inspected the baby’s changing table stocked with newborn diapers and a box of diaper wipes in an egg-shaped warmer. “It always smells so fresh in here.”

Lisa kept one hand on her belly and the other hanging off the glider’s armrest with a folded baby blanket draped over her shoulder. “I can’t tell the difference anymore.”

“You coming to bed?”

Lisa focused on the chest of drawers centered against a faux-painted wall blended with pastel colors. “I can’t sleep.”

Stu teetered on a mental tightrope between his long-standing guilt and his grieving wife, afraid to continue without acknowledging his own culpability and scratching at unhealed wounds. “The funeral home called again. We need to decide about an urn or casket.”

“You mean cremated or buried. What kind of mother decides this for a baby?”

“The kind of mother who loves her child.”

“Why does this keep happening to us?”

“It doesn’t. It won’t. We just…”

“We what, Stu? Pretend like nothing happened and go on about our lives?”

“We can’t go back and change the past. We can only move forward. I wish I could think of something more profound to say, but I can’t find the words. I love you more than anything in this world. I promise, we’ll find our way.”

Lisa stopped rocking. “I want our baby. I’m not planning another funeral. I don’t want to hear another ‘sorry for your loss’ or ‘she’s in God’s hands now.’ This isn’t right! This isn’t fair!”

“Life’s not about fair or unfair.”

Lisa rose from the glider and stood over the crib to place the baby’s blanket on the vinyl covered mattress. Then she turned to Stu and cried. “I can’t go through this again.”

Stu hugged her and kissed her hair. “You don’t have to go through it alone.”

Lisa rested her head against Stu’s chest. “I called my parents. I’d like to stay with them for a while, if that’s okay.”

“Of course, it is. Take as much time as you need.”

Lisa lifted her head and looked up at the man she’d met in college on a blind date. At the time, she told her friends she didn’t like him, but the more she learned about the real Stewart Harvey, the more deeply she fell in love with him. “Thank you.”

“Time with your family will help.”

“Come with me.”

Stu looked away. “I have to fly to Nashville tomorrow morning to meet with Royce.”

“About your book?”

“Sort of.”

“Did he bring you a check?”

“Not yet.”

Lisa wiped her eyes and left the room for a tissue to blow her nose. “We need the money, Stu.”

“I know. Royce told me the publisher withdrew the advance. The new book isn’t selling.”

“They can’t do that, can they?”

“If I force the money issue and the book flops, I’ll end up owing the publisher.”

“Never happen. Your books always sell.”

“I can’t take that chance, not after Royce lectured me about my dismal sales forecast. My publisher’s backing out. Apparently, I’ve lost touch with my core audience.”

Lisa wiped her nose with a tissue. “Now what?”

“Royce has a deal for me to write a biography.”

“For whom?”

“Some famous country singer. Royce wouldn’t give me his name.”

“Can’t you meet him online instead of flying to Nashville?”

“Royce wants to discuss the details in person.”

“But you write mystery novels, not biographies.”

“A book’s a book. I’ll be a ghostwriter getting paid to tell someone else’s story.”

Lisa took Stu’s hand. “Let’s go to bed. Right now, the only story I care about is ours.”

* * *

Stu lay in bed wide awake, staring at the ceiling with his phone in his hand on his chest while Lisa slept soundly beside him, a dose of Ambien in her system. He couldn’t stop the grieving process or fast forward to the stage of acceptance. And now the prospect of overcoming a second tragedy caused him to question his spiritual ethos at a time in his life when he longed for God’s grace more than ever.

He checked the flight status on his phone and searched for famous country music singers, anxious and frustrated about dismissing his new mystery novel, three years in the making, to write a biography about some music artist he’d never met.

Eventually, he slid out of bed for a quick shower and downed a health shake to settle his stomach. He retrieved the carry-on bag he’d packed the night before and kissed Lisa goodbye. He shared a shuttle van to Ocala International, greeted by the first morning rays of Central Florida sunshine peering over the horizon. A quick flight brought him to Nashville, where a limousine met him in the passenger arrival area and drove him to Music Row.

“I’m here to see Royce Vogel,” he told the androgynous receptionist at the front desk of the three story, glass-front office building shared by music celebrities, business managers, and entertainment attorneys.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“My name is Stu Harvey. Royce Vogel is expecting me.”

The receptionist profiled Stu from the waist up, contrasting his paunchy, John Candy physique to the wall of autographed headshots from top-selling country music artists.

Stu sent a quick I love you text to Lisa and gravitated toward an autographed Stratocaster enclosed in a glass display case. Having never played an instrument before, he could only imagine the thrill of performing center stage to a legion of loyal fans.

“There he is!” Royce Vogel boomed from the lobby in a wide collar, button down, slim fit, Calvin Klein shirt and dark denim jeans with a tailored tweed jacket. “I thought you changed your mind.”

Stu shook hands and followed Royce to a narrow office filled with moving boxes. “Thanks for the ride.”

“You’re one of my top clients.”

“With a book you can’t sell.”

Royce scratched his nostril, attacking the physical itch to suppress his urge to get high. “Hold on…”

Stu noticed the stack of cardboard moving boxes. “You find better digs somewhere else?”

“I’m sort of in between offices,” Royce’s voice faded when he left to grab a chair from the adjacent conference room. “My agency’s divesting the music talent from our portfolio to focus more on literary sales. I won’t need my Nashville space much longer.”

Stu felt his phone vibrate and read Lisa’s reply to his message. “One second,” he said, skimming Lisa’s long-winded text as Royce closed the door. “My wife’s leaving to visit her parents. I probably should have taken her myself.”

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Royce said. “People cope with grief in different ways, which is why you’re here, I suppose.”

“My mortgage won’t pay for itself.”

“Look, I get you’re disappointed about the new novel. Fiction can be a rough ride, even for established writers.”

“I’m a novelist, not a biographer.”

“A book is a book in my world, especially one poised to pay significant dividends.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re a great writer.”

“I’m a great mystery writer. I told you, biographies aren’t my forté.”

“Making money is our forté, Stu. Don’t talk yourself out of a job. I had to pull a lot of strings to get us here. Management fancied someone else, but I convinced them otherwise. I believe in your voice. Readers resonate with your work.”

“You mean they used to.”

“Tastes change. What’s en vogue today is cold product tomorrow.”

“I still have a strong audience,” Stu defended his position.

“You had a strong audience. Your books are solid, but your fiction doesn’t sell anymore. Readers crave the sizzle, not the steak. This biography will sell tens of millions in pre-release orders alone.”

“What makes you so confident?”

Royce shoved his hands in his jeans to touch the vial of cocaine in his pocket. “Simon Hollis.”

Stu displayed a blank expression. “Who?”

“Tell me you’ve heard of Simon Hollis.”

“I don’t listen to country music.”

“Simon was a multiplatinum artist. Four number one singles. Male vocalist of the year.” Royce paced inside the room, exuding his pent-up energy. “He played sold out venues for years.”

“So, what happened?”

“Prison.”

Stu searched the name Simon Hollis on his phone and scrolled through the first summary he found. “This guy’s a convicted murderer who killed three people.”

“Allegedly,” Royce emphasized.

“I’m not alleging anything. It says right here, Simon Hollis was convicted on all counts and sentenced to life in prison without parole.”

“Mr. Hollis was recently exonerated. DNA evidence proved his innocence, which he’s maintained since the beginning.”

Stu skimmed a different article. “This reporter claims Simon Hollis was a serial killer.”

“There are two sides to every story. The media tried and convicted him long before he was sentenced. The case was entirely circumstantial. The cops needed a fall guy and found one. DNA testing doesn’t lie. Simon Hollis is an innocent man. The system cheated him with a guilty verdict and shoved a life sentence down his throat. He deserves a second chance to tell his version of events.”

“Through his biography.”

“Through his redemption. His attorney contacted my agency about putting a deal together. Simon volunteered room and board for three months at his Nashville manor plus a lucrative sales cut for the author who pens the book.”

“Have you lost your mind? I’m not living with a convicted killer!”

“Simon Hollis is a country music superstar who was wrongfully convicted of crimes he never committed.”

“His crimes were murder, not shoplifting or kiting bad checks. How can you trust him?”

“He lost two decades of his life, not to mention his career. You haven’t heard the whole story yet.”

“I’ve heard enough to say no thank you.”

“Keep an open mind.”

Stu shook his head. “I have enough issues to deal with at home.”

“You’re not listening to me. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. This book will sell a million copies before it goes to print. Your name will be on the front page of major gossip magazines. Hollywood will be kicking in your door to negotiate the movie rights. I have three publishers on ice. They are literally salivating over this deal. We’re talking seven figures here, plus future film rights.”

“Minus your commission.”

“When you get paid, I get paid. At least tell me you’ll think about it. Forget the money for a second. After everything you’ve been through, you need this. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” Stu said flatly.

“Seriously?”

“What am I supposed to tell Lisa? I decided to shack up with a convicted felon and abandon her at home alone?”

“Exonerated felon, who suffered an egregious injustice that cost him precious years of his life. You couldn’t ask for a better story to write. You said yourself, Lisa needs time alone to process. Besides, Simon’s not the first person to be wrongfully convicted.”

“And he won’t be the last. There’s nothing new about his story. People are cheated by the justice system all the time.”

“Not like this. Trust me. All I’m asking… Meet with him. Hear him out. Give Simon the chance he deserves. This is a great opportunity for all of us to share his story with the world.”

Stu let the sales pitch sink in. Royce was always a slick talker, quick to point out the shiny rewards while omitting the gory details in fine print. His most recent novel excluded, Royce always delivered, eventually. The biography would be simple to write, assuming he had Lisa on board. “When could I meet him?”

“How about right now?”

Stu followed Royce from his office to a first-floor recording studio downstairs. “He’s here?”

“In the flesh. He’s been recording a new song he wrote while he was in prison. Besides, your return flight doesn’t leave until this afternoon.” Royce entered the recording studio’s control room and keyed the talkback microphone to communicate through Simon’s headphones in the session booth behind the glass partition. “I thought you guys should meet face-to-face sooner than later. This is the author I was telling you about.”

Stu extended a token wave to Simon Hollis in the session booth.

Simon strummed a chord and tuned the flat D string on his sunburst Gibson. “You don’t look like an author,” he spoke loudly inside the session booth.

“You don’t look like a killer,” Stu replied into the control room microphone.

Simon nodded and cleared his throat. “I wrote this song for my wife when she filed for divorce. Tell me what you think. And don’t pull punches. Give me your honest opinion.” He tapped his foot in time while he strummed an upbeat rhythm on guitar and sang…

 

“I know you never meant to hurt me

Like you never meant to hurt a man before

All I needed was an explanation

A little meaningful conversation

 

“I was hoping we could stay together

Instead of feeling we were lost forever

All I wanted was a chance to make things right

Now you got me all torn up inside

 

“So this is goodbye

Sayonara

Au revoir

Adiós amigo

 

“Yeah this is goodbye

Sayonara

Au revoir

Adiós amigo

 

“I was caught up in my indecision

Should have trusted my intuition

I was hoping we could stay together

But nothing ever seems to last forever

All I wanted was a chance to make things right

Now you got me all torn up inside

 

“So this is goodbye

Sayonara

Au revoir

Adiós amigo

 

“Yeah this is goodbye

Arrivederci

Despedida

Adiós amigo

 

“Maybe if I’d listened more

I wouldn’t be alone without you

There was something in your voice I can’t describe

The more I dig, the more I find

 

“So this is goodbye

Do svidaniya

Na shledanou

Arrivederci

Despedida

Adiós amigo

 

“Yeah this is goodbye

Do svidaniya

Na shledanou

Arrivederci

Despedida

Adiós amigo!”