Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
These posts were a deep rabbit hole, and I quickly realized I’d become obsessed with finding every image of Wolfe, tracking his journey and the minute changes in his appearance—hair a little longer, face a little tanner, hands a little rougher—rather than discovering where he was.
Hopefully, he was still in Hush, and I could get there before he left again.
In the meantime, I found a post by another woman back when he was in the Grand Canyon a few weeks ago that showed Wolfe’s back and ass as he hiked a trail ahead of her.
My eyes devoured every detail. The way his hair looked the same kind of messy it always did. The full curve of his ass in hiking shorts and the rounded shapes of his shoulders and biceps revealed by the sleeveless shirt he wore.
The bunch of his leg muscles as he strode forward, pushing up a slight incline. The way I could tell he was tapping out a rhythm on the side of his leg.
My chest tightened at the familiar gesture. Sweetheart.
I ran my finger over that spot in the photo. The pad of Wolfe’s middle finger barely brushed the fabric of his shorts while the other fingers stayed extended. The movement was so fucking familiar. He always had a melody in his head, and he seemed to live with a mental soundtrack running at all times.
It was a relief to know that Wolfe wasn’t holed up somewhere alone, licking his wounds. Maybe he just wanted an adventure. Maybe he wasn’t upset at all. Maybe he’d shot his shot with me and had moved on easily, simply taking time to sightsee before returning home.
I quickly copied the link to the most recent video post from Colorado and sent it to Derek and Jude. Within minutes, a response flashed up.
Derek
Thank fuck. How the hell did you find this?
Got lucky on a lead. I’ll head there in the morning.
Derek
That’s not necessary. I just wanted to make sure he was okay. He looks great here.
I disagreed. The more times I watched the video, the more I sensed something was off. He was smiling at the young woman playing guitar, but his shoulders looked tense, and his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Jude
I agree with Derek. But thank you, Trace. I feel better knowing he looks happy.
I stared at the messages. There was no way in hell I was going home now, not without putting eyes on him. I gritted my teeth against my knee-jerk reaction and tried to do the right thing.
Okay.
Then I blew out a breath and opened Instagram again. None of the accounts had new photos in the few minutes I’d been texting, but I went back to the video and clicked @BGShay’s account.
It was full of posts tagged with #SingerSongwriter, but there were also several recent posts tagged #WhoIsFletcherCoe, which snagged my attention.
I’d started following the famous songwriter a while ago, shortly after I’d heard “Not Mine” for the first time. To distract myself from looking for more posts of Wolfe, I clicked on the hashtag.
And discovered the poor, anonymous person behind some of the most beautiful songs I’d ever heard had become the center of an overwhelming, obsessive online manhunt.
I was immediately, irrationally angry. I knew better than most how ugly the music business could be and how toxic fandoms could become. Wolfe had shrunk away from the intrusive, sometimes mean side of Jude’s fame. And Jude had been stalked and harassed, both online and in person, more than once.
Maybe it was a good thing Wolfe had stopped his efforts to become a music producer when he’d left Thornton. I didn’t want to imagine him in an industry that could turn dangerous so quickly.
I clicked over to Fletcher Coe’s Instagram account, and when his deep, soothing voice washed over me, I remembered why so many people were desperate to know who he was. As usual, in one of his posts, the lyrics scrolled over the image of his fingers strumming the guitar, making it hard to pick out any identifying details beyond the unique wood grain of the guitar itself.
I let the music play as I set my alarm to allow myself a couple hours of sleep before starting the drive up to Hush. I couldn’t help but send out a small prayer for Fletcher Coe’s continued anonymity and safety. I hoped the guy had someone watching out for him.
As I drifted to sleep, getting lost in the melody, my thoughts had drifted back to Wolfe as they’d done every night for the past… I couldn’t even remember how long now. And I added a little prayer for his safety as well. Because he seemed safe in that small town in Colorado…
But I couldn’t help wondering why his smile hadn’t reached his eyes.
7
WOLFE
Joining the other campers in Joshua Tree had been a stroke of luck. They were a great group, and I’d been able to have the best of both worlds: solitude when I wanted it, good company when I didn’t. After several weeks of traveling with the impromptu group, I’d fallen into a new normal.