Sing You Home by Ava Hunter

The small workshop set back in the woods behind the old farmhouse is the perfect place for Luke to escape. Sitting on a bench, Luke polishes a smudge on the mahogany guitar, then strings it with brand-new nickel strings. With a gentle twang, he thumbs his finger down the strings, making it hum. Slow melodic pulls that in another life would have him penning a tune right along with it.

These hand-built acoustic guitars are, in essence, his job now. The one way he can earn a few bucks. The work’s peaceful and honest, and it makes Luke feel like he’s putting something back together again.

As a kid, he always loved puzzling pieces together, whether it was wood or chords or lyrics to a song. It was the same way when he picked up a guitar and vowed to make serious music with it. Anytime something went wrong or was broken, Luke tried to fix it with music.

But when Sal went missing . . .

How do you fix your world ending?

Not even music could save Luke from that. Hell, Sal was the reason for the music, the reason why they were the Brothers Kincaid.

They were just starting out, busking on street corners. Sal stuck it out with all of them, late nights, unloading the van, mailing CDs to DJs, getting paid in beer.

When they broke out, they broke out big. Even with their bluegrass-country-rock sound, the Brothers Kincaid’s last six albums all went platinum. Any arena in the country they sold out.

But none of that mattered to Luke.

Music was the star. Not money or fame. They were just talented enough to get lucky making a living doing what they loved. And all Luke wanted to do, from day one, was play his music with his brothers and have his wife by his side. It had been good. Real good. Until . . .

A curse blasts from Luke’s lips. His mind trying hard to go back to that night. Smearing a hand down his face, he leans back and sets down the guitar. He glares at it. Like it’s daring him to play.

Maybe it is.

Luke hasn’t picked up his own guitar, hasn’t sung, hasn’t written anything since the night he lost his wife. He doesn’t even know where his own beat-up guitar is. With its rusty strings and Sal’s name inlaid into the fretboard, he stashed it somewhere in the house and never looked back.

To Luke, it was his penance. A way to sit this life out without Sal. And four months ago, he nearly got his wish.

The only reason he’s still breathing is Seth. His brother found him holed up in the bedroom, drunk and raging, the shotgun in his hands. Pushed over the edge by Sal’s sister, Lacey. Asking Luke to file paperwork that declared Sal dead.

Dead.

The word was enough to make him want to blow his brains out. And so he tried, ready to follow Sal blindly down into the dark. Seth wrestled the gun from his hand. His brother was so angry he stood over him and screamed at him until he went hoarse with tears, but he never left. He and Jace sat in that room with him for two days until Luke finally pulled it together.

It’s something Luke regrets. He should have known better. Done better. He let his brother and Jace down when he tried to end it. He should have held on, even without her.

If Sal knew what he had tried to do—Christ, the thought’s enough to drive him straight to the bottle.

Luke’s eyes brush to a pegboard above the workbench. Beneath the soft lamplight, Sal’s photo. A Polaroid Jace snapped. Luke never fails to smile when he sees it. It’s Sal, arm extended, middle finger up. Her pretty face scowl-laughing. Sal was fightin’ mad that night. Angry at Seth and Luke for cutting up on the dance floor and getting them kicked out of the bar before she heard her favorite band.

That picture was Sal in all her glory—brave, beautiful, confident. Everything Luke loved about her captured in one brief snapshot. Sal had an aura that made everyone want to do every single thing she said. She could ask for the moon and someone would try and rope it.

Most likely, him.

Finally, the torture gets to be too much.

Luke rips his eyes away from the photo. Burying his head in his hands, he exhales hard. His chest expands, his heart a pumping freight train threatening to go off the rails. How he wishes he had that moment in time back.

But more than anything, he wishes he could turn back the clock and tell Sal the truth. Maybe then, those long months of tragedy never would have happened. Maybe then, she would still be alive.

It takes Luke a moment to realize he’s being called.

Literally.

His cell phone vibrates on the workbench.

He’s about to refuse the call but then wonders if it might be Seth calling from some dive bar in the Florida Everglades to complain about the shitty working conditions. The thought brings a wry smile to lips. His brother can be a diva when he takes to the stage.

He grabs his phone. “Hello?”

“Your brother’s pissing me off, kid.”

The clipped voice hits him like a bullet.

Luke rubs a hand across his eyes, not in the mood for a conversation with Mort Stein. He’s already told his ex-manager he wasn’t touring, and that’s it. Nothing Mort can say will change his mind. Although he’ll try. Christ knows Mort’s been on Luke’s ass since the Brothers Kincaid announced their indefinite hiatus. These days, Mort’s main goal in life is to get Luke’s head on straight so the band gets back together. Mort’s a musical genius, but he’s also a greedy son of a bitch.

Luke sighs. He’s picturing bail money. Broken beer bottles. Busted jaws. “What kind of trouble did he get into now?”

“Hell, son, I was hoping you could tell me. I got a call from Griff Greyson’s manager. Apparently, Seth and Jace missed the show in Perdido Key.”

Luke frowns. It might be like Seth to blow off a show, but not Jace. They have a contract. Still some semblance of a reputation. There’s no way they’d screw this up. Not unless—not unless something happened. Something bad.

Cold fear grips Luke by the balls. He checks the time. Seven o’clock. He last spoke to Jace earlier this afternoon. He and Seth were planning to grab a bite and then hit the road.

“They weren’t on the bus?”

“No, they weren’t on the goddamn bus,” Mort huffs in annoyance. “They waited as long as they could. Finally, they had to leave ’em in Pensacola. They ain’t picking up their phones. Emmy Lou’s a wreck.”

Luke grips the phone tighter, his knuckles bloodless, as Mort rattles complaints in his ear.

“It’s a fucking shitshow down there, kid. Greyson’s people are throwing around the s-word. Sue, Luke. Do you know what that’ll do to my business? Plus, we got that Nashville Star tabloid reporter hound-doggin’ their trail. Thinks there’s a story to be had. You know his name, Clive Jasper, the one who gave us trouble last year . . .”

Luke closes his eyes. Red-hot rage blurs his thoughts at the mention of the reporter who caused Sal’s car accident. Thank God for Seth. If it weren’t for his brother . . .

Brother.

Once again, Luke eyes Sal’s photo on the pegboard. Her middle finger aimed straight at him, if he doesn’t do what he knows he should. What Sal would do.

Luke needles his brow. “You got time for a favor, Mort?”

“Favors cost, son.” Luke hears the smile in his ex-manager’s voice that tells him Mort’s already planning to cash in. But Luke will make a deal with the devil in a heartbeat. He needs to find his brother. He needs to make sure Seth and Jace are safe.

Florida. He’s gotta get there.

Fast.

The room is breaking.

Jenny opens her eyes and jerks up in bed. Her hands fly to her temples. She shakes her head and moans. It’s a split-apart. The room crashing down around her with a deafening roar. Doors crumpling, the floor sucked out beneath her, the ceiling disintegrating around her into a million microscopic shrapnel-like pieces like it so often does in her dreams.

Wait. Is this a dream?

Jenny grips a steel railing. She blinks, confused, before she registers she’s in a hospital bed. Wires feed from a monitor into her body. An IV is snarled around her right hand. The scent of hand sanitizer burns her nostrils.

The corner of the room blurs with movement and Jenny flinches. A nurse steps forward, her mouth pursed in sympathy. “Welcome back, honey.”

Jenny licks chapped lips. Her throat is begging for a drink of water. “Where did I go?”

The nurse smiles. “Can you tell me your name?”

Her name? What was it? She had one . . . but . . .

Her mind spins dizzily, weighed down by drugs, by a groggy haze of confusion. Everything around her is strange and she’s scared. “Where am I? What happened?”

“Please relax. We’re trying to contact your husband—”

“No!” Her eyes wild, Jenny claws at the nurse’s arm. The nurse’s face fills with concern as Jenny thrashes her head and attempts to climb out of the bed.

She’ll escape. She’ll get away from Roy if it’s the last thing she does.

“No husband. Please, you can’t call him. You can’t . . . you can’t . . .”

The nurse escapes Jenny’s grasp, beckoning for more people to enter the room. “A sedative,” she orders. “So she doesn’t hurt herself.”

“Noooo,” Jenny cries, arcing violently on the bed. She doesn’t want to go back into the dark. Her body rises and falls as she fights cool hands pressing her down into the bed. Jenny screams, agonized, but it sticks in her throat when a new rush of drugs fills her veins. Her next word of protest is all but a gurgle.

Seconds later, she feels her body relax, the roll of her eyes up into darkness, a soft, familiar song in her head, as a warm sea of sleep sweeps her under once more.