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“Sure I do!” She rummaged around in her purse and came up with a dog-eared composition book. “This one’s called ‘Jesus Tweets.’” She fetched her guitar and sang a little.

Do not be anxious,

About tomorrow.

For tomorrow,

Will be anxious for itself.

Sufficient for the day

Is its own trouble.

Please retweet me.

And follow me back.

I follow you, Jesus.

And I retweet you.

I just want you to know,

I’ve got enough.

Sufficient for this day,

Are the troubles that I own,

No need to retweet me.

Just thought you should know.

A sly look passed between Nicolet and her manager as Graciella sang, the light of avarice on both parts, and a darker light of jealousy from Nicolet.

“I think we might like to buy your songs,” the manager said.

“Really? Oh, my God!”

“We would do what’s called a simple purchase agreement. See, that way you don’t have to hire a lawyer and an accountant and a manager who will just take everything you have.”

It occurred to me that Nicolet had all those things, of course—lawyers, accountants, and a manager—but Graciella’s starlit eyes blinded her to the obvious fact that she was about to be ripped off.

“I think I can see where this is going,” I muttered.

“Let me see if this coffee shop has a printer I can use, and we’ll draw the contract up right now,” the manager said. He thumped the table for emphasis and squeezed out a big, insincere smile.

“This is going to be great,” Nicolet said, barely concealing her contempt for Graciella’s naiveté. “We’ll be a team. Like Lennon and McCartney. You write the s

ongs, I’ll sing them.”

Messenger was looking at me speculatively.

“What?” I snapped.

“What shall we do next? Learn more of Graciella’s fate, or return for now to Pete and Trent?”

It took me aback. Messenger was running the show, I was just along for the ride. Right? Was he judging my readiness?