Don’t worry, I don’t expect writing credit or residuals on any of our songs. Exploit me to your fullest potential.
“Not what I was getting at.” Clay hesitated, tapping his fingers. “I was wondering why being a rock star—why it wasn’t ever enough for you?”
The mood in the room shifted, as Clay knew it would. It was everything I wanted and more, Boyle replied.
“And you still long for it. That’s obvious.”
I long for the music, the creation, that’s true. I wasn’t strong enough to defeat the darkness I stepped into though. In the end, I couldn’t save myself, or Deidre, from what came for us.
“It’s hard to wrap my mind around. I always think as being larger than life, above everything. Problems especially.”
I once thought the same, man. But the more you sell, the more you buy into.
Tap, tap, tap went Clay’s fingers. “You didn’t kill yourself. Did you, Rocco?”
The room was still, as still as a photograph.
“Come on, it’s been weeks since I laid Deidre to rest. I think we’ve earned each other’s trust.” Suddenly Clay realized how righteously adamant he felt about this. And he took a stab at the conclusion he suspected: “Rooster killed you, didn’t he?”
Yes, Boyle told him. And no.
“Someone else was there?”
Forget it.
Clay glared at the empty chair beside him. “How can you say that? Do you know how many people had their hearts ripped open the day you died? Everyone you knew. And plenty you didn’t. People like me and Savy. We all thought you’d hung yourself. Now you’re telling me that’s not what happened and I should forget it?”
If you knew the truth, what would you do with it? Go to the police? Tell them a little ghost whispered in your ear? All that’ll do is attract the wrong attention. And if you’re afraid to play to a few teenage girls… you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
“So I won’t tell anyone. If we’re friends, though, and if you trust me, why can’t I know?”
Sounds like you already do, Boyle said, and his cool was gone, replaced by a voice that was anxious and stretched thin. What d’you expect me to say? It wasn’t suicide? It wasn’t an accidental overdose? It wasn’t an accident of any kind? It’s what happens when you go down the wrong path? It’d be more useful if I promised to steer you clear of it.
“What about your killer?” Clay persisted. “They’ll go unpunished. Why would you let that happen?”
The only reply came from the bleeping of Crossroads in the corner. And Clay had been living with ghosts long enough to know when the hovering energy that was Rocco Boyle had drifted away. “I’m not letting this go,” he told empty room.
But it had been smart of Boyle not to tell him. Because it was too big a secret to keep bottled up. It wasn’t suicide. It wasn’t an accidental overdose. It wasn’t an accident of any kind.
All the times Clay had rolled his eyes over the great rock-n-roll conspiracy, how he’d mocked the desperate fans and bloggers who swore someone had broken in and murdered their hero. He had only been fourteen when Boyle’s suicide hit the news, and it had left him feeling confused—betrayed. Like he had been sold something sweet that turned out rotten in the middle. In recent years, though, Clay had developed a deep and enduring empathy for Rocco Boyle. He railed against the conspiracy theorists and their inability to face reality. Because he had come to understand that with the right combination of sadness, loneliness, and loss, anyone was capable of taking their life. Even someone on top of the world. Even the face in the mirror.
He had wanted to believe his idol was weak because sometimes Clay felt weak.
But all along he’d been the one mistaken. The diehards were right to keep questioning the answer. They deserved the truth now more than he did. And even if Clay wouldn’t exactly Tweet what he knew to the world, there was one fan whose heartache he could ease. So he drove. Deeper into the Valley, into Panorama City, and a network of potholed, palm-treed streets.
You only had to visit the apartment that Savy Marquez shared with her grandmother and brothers once to understand her motivations. Clay had dropped her off a few times, but she had never invited him in, and now he understood why. A pair of vagrants were asleep under the stairs. The apartment doors hid behind metal screens, their windows caged with bars. The pool was dry and full of broken tiles and trash. To work double shifts and come home to this, Clay thought, and the privilege of his father’s wealth made him feel lucky and guilty in equal parts.
He didn’t know which door was Savy’s, but she’d once mentioned living on the first floor and “Ma qu z” was marked on 121’s mailbox. It was around midnight and Savy wasn’t picking up her phone, so Clay hesitated at the door, worried he’d wake everyone by knocking. Hearing the TV inside, he rapped lightly on the screen. And Mo appeared almost instantly, grinning like Hannibal Lecter at a fat man. “Where art though, Romeo!” he shouted across the courtyard, then laughed and motioned for Clay to hurry in as various hostile replies answered back.
“Savy’s not here, dude.”
“She’s not?” After practice, Clay had asked if she wanted to catch a kung-fu double feature at the New Beverly Cinema and she’d declined, saying Mickey had a dental appointment she needed to take him to in the morning. Clay had thought nothing of it.
“Looks like you got competition, Loverman,” Mo said. Then, seeing that Clay had misplaced his smile, he changed course. “Don’t worry, my sister’s smart. You live in a big house, you love music as much as she does, and you’re obviously gaga for her.”
Clay spotted Mickey—looking small and vulnerable, passed out on the carpet in front of
