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“The document you signed that says you can’t go around making wild claims about supposedly writing those songs. That’s what it is. NDA. Nondisclosure Agreement.”

“But I did write them! You know I wrote them!”

“Kid, get lost. Do yourself a favor and just get lost.”

Graciella stared at him. “This isn’t right, Mr. Joshua, this isn’t right.”

He shrugged. “I don’t care. It’s legal. And if you make a stink I’ll sue you for violating the NDA. I’ll have private detectives all over you, finding out every last detail, trashing you, making you look like just another pathetic obsessed fan with delusions.”

For a moment Graciella just looked blank.

Mr. Joshua smirked. “It’s the music business, kid. Nothing personal, but Nicolet want

s cred as a songwriter, she’s going to be huge, so you are out of luck.”

“I have other songs, what if I start singing them? People will see what I can do, and then they’ll believe me!”

“Any and all songs you ever write—ever—belong to Nicolet. You sing, we sue. Unless I decide not to wait around for the law to take its course.” With that he moved closer to her, definitely invading her space, making himself seem large and threatening.

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“You ought to be scared. You don’t know who you’re messing with. Nicolet is a gold mine and I am in for ten percent. You get that? Having you dragged into a dark alley and beaten up, that’s pocket change. I can find six guys in six minutes who’d do it for twenty bucks each.”

“I . . . Are . . .” She was rendered practically speechless. Then she rallied. “I don’t care. Go ahead and have me beat up, I’ll tweet it out, pictures of my bruises or whatever, go ahead!”

At that Mr. Joshua slapped her hard across the face. Hard enough that Graciella’s head snapped to the side. Then he grabbed her by both shoulders and pushed his face within an inch of hers. “Those six guys I’m talking about? They can do more than rough you up. You know what I’m saying?”

For a minute he looked as if he might strike her again. There was a violence to his expression, a ruthless determination. And he wanted to hurt her, that much was plain, he had enjoyed slapping her, had enjoyed her fear. He was breathing hard.

Graciella stood stunned, speechless now, hand to her slapped face, tears filling her eyes.

“Get the hell out of town, and if I ever see you again, or hear your name, you’ll regret it. You hear me?”

When she didn’t answer he pushed her, hard. “I asked if you heard me.”

Graciella nodded.

Mr. Joshua made a sneering sound, turned on his heel, and walked away.

Graciella sat with her back against the bricks and cried. After a while she pulled out her little purse again and counted the few dollars and coins. A choked sob, a wiping of tears, a stiff climb to her feet, a fearful yet still somehow hopeful glance at the stage door, and she walked off into the night.

“So this is what set her on the path that led to her shooting heroin in an abandoned convenience store in Nashville,” I said.

“In part,” Messenger said. “There’s more.”

“But we’re going after Mr. Joshua, right?” I admit it, I was caught up in a rage toward the manager. I would have happily summoned the Master of the Game to deal with him right there and then, and had no pity for the results. Graciella had endured horrifying mistreatment at the hands of the incubus posing as her father, treatment that I think would have destroyed me for all time. And now this.

“You no longer despise her,” Messenger observed.

I shook my head. “No. I was wrong to judge her.”

Messenger nodded. He looked at me appraisingly, and I think it was an approving look. “You do learn,” he said.

Okay.

Okay, I know it’s ridiculous to be so pleased with a simple, grudging compliment, but the truth is my heart swelled, and it was all I could do to keep from yelling, Yes!

Something positive, finally, from Messenger. I’ve gotten A pluses on term papers that did not give me one tenth of the pleasure of that simple, uninflected, “You do learn.”