But I can’t stay in the bed with my family forever. For one thing, I have a job I’m supposed to be starting in Seattle next week, and I’ve already spent three-and-a-half of the four adjustment weeks I’d given myself, hidden away in my family’s Hollywood home. For another, the cameras will be back in a few days to film my father going back into the studio to record a love song for my mom in preparation for the huge vow renewal ceremony that’s supposed to end their season arc.

Still, my dad doesn’t love the idea of me leaving, especially at night. We can be sure there aren’t any paparazzi lurking about, even in the trees. So no one will follow me off the property. But…

“I don’t think you should be driving by yourself at night.”

“It’s just to Sola’s old place in Valencia,” I assure him. “I’ll be there in less than an hour, and then I’ll wait until daylight to start driving again. I promise.”

I wonder if I’ll ever get used to this version of my father. The one who became an only slightly nutty, and not nearly so foul-mouthed, forty-something as soon as he decided he was done with the cameras for a while.

I hug him, and then Curt Jr. who’s kitted out in full Beyonce drag, yet still managed to get my large suitcase into the back of my Prius in mile-high stilettos.

After he’s done, my brother pulls me into a hug. “You sure you don’t want me to drive you?” he asks for the millionth time.

I laugh. “Somehow I don’t think I’m going to do as good of a job of staying under the press’s radar with BuhBounceye in the driver’s seat.”

“Girl, that ain’t nothing but an outfit change,” Curt Jr. assures me. “I got a Ruby Dee upstairs ain’t nobody going to question.”

“Okay, sweetie,” I say, kissing him on both cheeks. “I think it’s time for both you and Mom to get back to your tours, and for me to start pretending the last two months never happened.”

“That’s gonna be a stretch even for you, Nitra,” Dad says.

But Mom pulls me into her arms and says, “Text us as soon as you get to Sola’s house.”

“I will,” I promise.

And I do, sending out a group text before I stop in at the main house to say hello to Brian.

Brian is Sola’s mentor and second father. Literally the man who gave her away at her wedding to Ivan Rustanov. In fact, he’s leaving early the next morning to attend the opening night performance of her Moscow Opera directorial debut, but he still stayed up late to make sure I got into Sola’s old guest house okay.

“Not at all, my dear girl,” Brian insists when I try to thank him for his consideration. “I don’t sleep much these days anyway. Consequence of getting old and sober.”

We have a cup of organic loose leaf tea and talk about the weather in L.A. as opposed to West Virginia. My new job at the Children’s Hospital of Seattle. The relatively light traffic on the 5 this time of night.

Everything except what’s most weighing on our minds. My huge scandal, and the recent death of Brian’s husband.

The closest we come to it is when he walks me to the back door and clasps my hand between both of his. “You’ll be doing good work up there in Seattle, young Anitra. Even though you’ve abandoned the arts, I want you to know both Sola and I remain proud of you.”

His words mean a lot to me. But the truth is, as I sink into bed in Sola’s old bedroom, I feel closer to turning fifty in July than twenty-six. I’m weary in a way that probably has nothing to do with the life I’m carrying inside me. I think about the one time I pushed the man I originally knew as John Doe to get help, and wonder how long I can go before I’ll have to consider taking my own advice.

Then I welcome the black of sleep, dropping a curtain down on both the reality show and real life.

* * *

I fall asleep in Sola’s bed…

...but I don’t wake up there.

Instead I come awake with a gasp in the harsh early morning sun. The wind whipping through my weave, my hands tied in front of me. There are wooden planks instead of Sola’s carpet all around me, and beyond that, lots and lots of stone blue water as far as my eyes can see.

There’s also a metal banister in my direct sightline. It’s the only thing standing between me and the grayish blue water. That’s when I realize I’m on the deck of a large but ancient tugboat, sitting on a bench originally meant to seat fisherman. But why do my feet feel so heavy…?

My eyes widen with horror when I look down. My legs are also tied, nylon rope binding them to what looks like some kind of small, rusty engine…

A motorcycle engine, I realize with a start.

“She’s awake,” a gruff voice says. And then comes the sound of booted feet approaching.

I get most of my answers then with one tilt of my head upwards. A bunch of bikers in leather vests and thick sweatshirts are now standing in front of me.

There has to be at least eight men surrounding me, all dressed in leather, all with different degrees of extreme hate etched across their faces.

Mason’s there. As well as his father. But the only one of these men I really care about is standing in the middle of their ranks. And that’s when my heart totally flatlines.

Because I don’t recognize this man.

This man has the same blue eyes as the John Doe I met two months ago, but now he’s clean-cut with the same haircut as the man in the video I watched that night in Colin’s penthouse suite. He’s also wearing a leather jacket with a patch that declares him the President of the Southern Freedom Knights.

Woods is gone. I can see that now. Killed and buried under his true identity. And Dixon Fairgood—the real Dixon Fairgood—has taken his place. He stands like a boss among these vile men, glaring at me with the same glittering hatred in his eyes.

“Your memory’s come back,” I whisper.

He looks me up and down, lets a full disgusted second pass by before answering, “That it has, race traitor. That it has.”