Reporters descended on my car the minute I turned into my parents’ driveway. Cameras trained on my face, they lobbed questions as I waited for the garage door to open.

“Tori, are you going to release a new album?”

“What about a Damaged reunion?”

“Care to comment on Logan Cage’s arrest?”

The front door slammed with a loud bang.

“Y’all get out of here before I get my gun!” my daddy bellowed from the porch. A couple of the local reporters scattered, and I bit down a smile. If Daddy still had a gun, it was collecting dust somewhere. To my knowledge, he hadn’t picked up a firearm since he retired from the Austin PD five years ago.

His distraction was enough to allow me time to slip into the garage. But that still didn’t give me the courage to get out of the car. I’d put off giving my parents any details about the tour. They knew I was leaving in the morning, but I’d made it sound like I’d only be gone for a few days. But then the news went wide this morning on Good Morning Austin. And now the mainstream media was speculating about my reasons.

Grabbing my phone, I grimaced at the preview of the latest Google alert.

Ticket sales soar for Sixth Street Survival tour amid rumors that Belle Grayson will perform.

Blowing out a breath, I headed inside to face the firing squad. The scent of freshly baked cookies hit me the moment I stepped into the mudroom. Mama cooked when she was angry. And from the state of the kitchen, she was pissed.

Her dark amber gaze found mine, and then she returned to bludgeoning the half-mixed cookie dough with her wooden spoon. “It’s about time you showed up, Victoria.”

I don’t know what bothered me more, her bluntness or the use of my given name.

Sliding a hip onto the barstool in front of the island, I clasped my hands in front of me. “Sorry. I meant to come by sooner. But then I got busy and …” My mom had no patience for excuses, so I let the thought wither on my tongue. “Anyway, I’m here now.”

Dumping a handful of chocolate chips into the bowl, she used the same fervor to fold the morsels into the mix. “Victoria …” Shaking her head, she sighed. “I’ve got enough to worry about at the moment without you gallivanting around the country.”

I stopped fidgeting. “Like what?” She ducked into the fridge without answering. “Mama?”

My butt rose from the stool, but a warm hand slipped around my shoulder. Slanting my gaze to my dad, the worry lining his brow did nothing for the pit in my stomach.

“Come on,” he said quietly, inclining his head toward the door. “We’ll talk in the living room.”

I rose on wobbly legs, my eyes darting to my mom. She didn’t look up, just continued to add nuts to the dough like it was her sole purpose in life.

“What is it?” I asked as I followed Daddy out of the room.

He stopped in front of the wall of framed photos in the hallway. Every child who’d ever come to this house—for a night, or a month, or longer—had a spot of honor. A home. Some of the kids I remembered, but most I didn’t. The foster care system was far from ideal. And I wondered why my parents even bothered, considering the pain it had caused throughout the years.

Daddy straightened the frame encasing my sister’s latest school picture. “We got a call yesterday about Courtney.”

The name scratched the inside of my brain, and I crossed my arms over my stomach, fingers digging into my sides. “Who’s Courtney?”

He took in a slow breath. “Zoe’s mother.”

“Zoe’s mother?” I croaked. “Mama is Zoe’s mother.”

They didn’t share DNA. But since the day my parents brought Zoe to this house, malnourished and frail, her eyes too wide and knowing to belong to any three-year-old, she’d been that to my mama—a daughter.

I was seventeen at the time, involved in my own thing. Music. Rhenn. The band. And I didn’t want to get attached. I’d been down that road before. Sometimes it turned out well, but more often than not, when the kids found their forever homes, a piece of me went with them.

“It’s been eleven years,” I said when I found my voice. “What did she want?”

Daddy backed up and leaned against the wall, his eyes still on the photo. “It wasn’t her. It was the case worker. Courtney’s still in prison.”

“Then why—?”

“Courtney wants to see her.”

My jaw hit the floor along with my stomach. “Wait … what? Courtney wants Zoe to visit her … in jail?”

Another labored breath. “She’s getting out soon, and the court wants to explore the possibility of a reconnection. We’re going to fight it, but Zoe might need to speak to the judge and—”

A small sob floated down from the second floor—from Zoe’s room—and Daddy looked up at the ceiling, anguish painting his features.

He called after me, but I was already halfway up the stairs.

Skidding to a stop at my sister’s door, I looked around in shock. Clothes spilled from the dresser. The medals and trophies she’d won from her dance recitals littered the floor. It was like someone had turned the room upside down and given it a good shake.

“Zoe?” I stepped around the mess, knowing where I’d find her. “Zo …?” I pulled open the closet door, and there she was in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees.

Blinking up at me with tears staining her cheeks, Zoe’s face contorted. “Don’t let them take me.”

When I dropped onto the floor beside her, she practically climbed into my lap. Holding back my own tears, I kissed the top of her head. “Never.”

“They’re not going to take your sister,” Trevor assured me as I paced in front of his desk. Leaning back in his seat, he steepled his fingers under his chin. “Chase was right about you. You’re a little—” Stopping in my tracks, I glared at him. “Intense. Now have a seat and listen to me, will you?”

After giving him the once over, I reluctantly eased into the chair. “You don’t know me well enough to order me around.”

Until recently, Hollis and Briggs had handled all of my legal work. But I cut ties with the firm when I went into business with Chase. Trevor was his guy. But the kid looked a little wet behind the ears to me.

“How old are you, anyway?” I asked.

Trevor quirked a brow, a sexy smile curving his lips. “Twenty-eight. You?”

Jesus. Did he think I was flirting with him? Probably. The guy was devastatingly handsome in a GQ kind of way. Chestnut hair, a little longer on the top, fell over his brow, giving him a reason to rake the strands out of his eyes. Which were his best feature, really. The rich chocolate pools twinkled when he smiled, like he had a secret.

But not any secret I wanted to learn.

“Never mind,” I said, digging my nails into the arm rest. “Tell me about Zoe. You really don’t think there’s anything to worry about?”

He pondered for an agonizingly long moment. “Depends on what you mean by worry. Do I think your parents will lose custody? No. Zoe is fourteen, and she has a say in where she wants to live. But, likely, she’ll have to go through some kind of hearing if her mother pushes the issue.”

“Courtney is not her mother,” I growled. “She gave birth to her. That’s it.”

Trevor sighed, nodding. “I understand. But the court never severed Courtney’s parental rights.” He skimmed the file in front of him. “She’s filed numerous petitions in the last nine years—”

“Nine years?” I tipped forward to glimpse the paperwork. “But Zoe’s been with my parents for almost eleven years.”

He shrugged. “Maybe the woman found religion or something.”

But somehow, I knew that wasn’t it. The timing was too much of a coincidence. Nine years ago my first album hit the charts, and my parents were swept into the Damaged media frenzy right along with everyone else. Including Zoe.

I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “You’re sure that nothing is going to happen while I’m gone?”

Trevor took a sip of his bottled water. “Relatively sure. And I can always request a continuance. Legal aid is handling this matter, and they’re always backed up.”

Shoving to my feet, I slung my backpack over my shoulder. “My parents have your number in case something comes up. Whatever they need, whenever they need it, make sure you handle it.”

“Sure thing.” He snapped his finger as I turned to leave. “Wait, I wanted to give you this.”

I took the file he offered. “What is it?”

“A loophole.” While I thumbed through the papers, he continued, “Half of the anger management classes that Logan has to take can be completed online. Once he finishes those and takes the test, I’ll petition the court to modify the terms of his agreement.”

“What’s that have to do with me?”

“If the judge agrees, she’ll release you from the bond, and you can quit the tour.”

My stomach uncoiled for the first time in three days. Hell, longer. “I’ll make sure Logan gets it done, then.”

Trevor arched a skeptical brow, but it didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. Things were looking up. Finally.