Page 29 of Perfect Composition

Ward and Angie exchange an amused look. “Something like that. As I was saying, Dr. Kensington loves her daughter tremendously. When I spoke with her, she—Paige—was assisting Austyn with sound. I approached her thinking she was using an iPad in the club which I knew was against the rules.”

“Angie, you’re too damn smart to work here,” I declare.

Carys shoots me a fulminating glare. “Bite your damn tongue, Becks. Or I’ll triple your fee for this fiasco.”

“How is this my fault?” I yell. For once I didn’t instigate the outrageousness that might hit every scandal sheet. No, that’s not entirely true, I admonish myself. I fell in love with the perfect girl for me.

And I left her.

Pregnant and alone to raise our daughter.

Christ.

“Are you kidding me right now?” she shouts back.

I send an apologetic glance in her direction before turning back to Angie. “What else did you find out, love?” I’ll take anything. Any little bit of information.

“Just that she—Austyn—cashed out her college fund to give this—and I can only assume Paige meant DJ’ing—a try. Oh, and her mother is proud of her.”

“The last one I’m not surprised about.” But the college one has me frowning. I have a ludicrous amount of money. And if I’m right, then neither Paige nor Austyn ever need to worry about it ever again.

Steepling my hands together, I ask the room at large, “So, what’s next? What should I do?”

“Something you’re so good at,” Carys declares.

Eagerly, I lean forward, awaiting my orders like a young corporal from his general.

“Wait.” Carys’s words deflate me.

“There has to be something…” I protest.

“Wait, Beckett. We have to do this right. Not just for you, but for that family. There can be no uncertainty. Do you understand me? I need to have someone start looking into things and this isn’t a priority for them.”

Unfortunately, I do.

PAIGE

CHAPTER TWELVE

Crying in public is something that happens. Don’t deny it; it’s happened to all of us. We were not surprised to find some of the top places to do so being your car or at airports, but some people seek out the religious section of a bookstore. Really? Over self-help? I’m not judging; I just don’t appreciate why one section version another. What’s wrong with self-help?

— Beautiful Today

Austyn shifts her weight back and forth as we wait for the car that’s going to take me back to the airport. We spent the rest of my trip preparing her for the next bit of hers—her tour across varying clubs in different cities with a break over the holidays. “Don’t be nervous, baby. You’re going to be fantastic. No, miraculous,” I reassure her.

She opens her mouth and closes it, a sure sign of nerves.

“Austyn, what is it?”

Her head shakes back and forth.

“Austyn Melissa,” I stress her full name.

“Mama, you said I could ask.” Her words come out in a rush.

Just then, a black town car pulls up. The driver hops out. “Ms. Kensington?”

“Yes.” My voice is weak. But then, I’m answering them both.