The small workshop set back in the woods behind the old farmhouse is the perfect place for Luke to escape. Sitting on a bench, Luke polishes a smudge on the mahogany guitar, then strings it with brand-new nickel strings. With a gentle twang, he thumbs his finger down the strings, making it hum. Slow melodic pulls that in another life would have him penning a tune right along with it.
These hand-built acoustic guitars are, in essence, his job now. The one way he can earn a few bucks. The work’s peaceful and honest, and it makes Luke feel like he’s putting something back together again.
As a kid, he always loved puzzling pieces together, whether it was wood or chords or lyrics to a song. It was the same way when he picked up a guitar and vowed to make serious music with it. Anytime something went wrong or was broken, Luke tried to fix it with music.
But when Sal went missing ...
How do you fix your world ending?
Not even music could save Luke from that. Hell, Sal was the reason for the music, the reason why they were the Brothers Kincaid.
They were just starting out, busking on street corners. Sal stuck it out with all of them, late nights, unloading the van, mailing CDs to DJs, getting paid in beer.
When they broke out, they broke out big. Even with their bluegrass-country-rock sound, the Brothers Kincaid’s last six albums all went platinum. Any arena in the country they sold out.
But none of that mattered to Luke.
Music was the star. Not money or fame. They were just talented enough to get lucky making a living doing what they loved. And all Luke wanted to do, from day one, was play his music with his brothers and have his wife by his side. It had been good. Real good. Until ...
A curse blasts from Luke’s lips. His mind trying hard to go back to that night. Smearing a hand down his face, he leans back and sets down the guitar. He glares at it. Like it’s daring him to play.
Maybe it is.
Luke hasn’t picked up his own guitar, hasn’t sung, hasn’t written anything since the night he lost his wife. He doesn’t even know where his own beat-up guitar is. With its rusty strings and Sal’s name inlaid into the fretboard, he stashed it somewhere in the house and never looked back.
To Luke, it was his penance. A way to sit this life out without Sal. And four months ago, he nearly got his wish.
The only reason he’s still breathing is Seth. His brother found him holed up in the bedroom, drunk and raging, the shotgun in his hands. Pushed over the edge by Sal’s sister, Lacey. Asking Luke to file paperwork that declared Sal dead.
Dead.
The word was enough to make him want to blow his brains out. And so he tried, ready to follow Sal blindly down into the dark. Seth wrestled the gun from his hand. His brother was so angry he stood over him and screamed at him until he went hoarse with tears, but he never left. He and Jace sat in that room with him for two days until Luke finally pulled it together.
It’s something Luke regrets. He should have known better. Done better. He let his brother and Jace down when he tried to end it. He should have held on, even without her.
If Sal knew what he had tried to do—Christ, the thought’s enough to drive him straight to the bottle.
Luke’s eyes brush to a pegboard above the workbench. Beneath the soft lamplight, Sal’s photo. A Polaroid Jace snapped. Luke never fails to smile when he sees it. It’s Sal, arm extended, middle finger up. Her pretty face scowl-laughing. Sal was fightin’ mad that night. Angry at Seth and Luke for cutting up on the dance floor and getting them kicked out of the bar before she heard her favorite band.
That picture was Sal in all her glory—brave, beautiful, confident. Everything Luke loved about her captured in one brief snapshot. Sal had an aura that made everyone want to do every single thing she said. She could ask for the moon and someone would try and rope it.
Most likely, him.
Finally, the torture gets to be too much.
Luke rips his eyes away from the photo. Burying his head in his hands, he exhales hard. His chest expands, his heart a pumping freight train threatening to go off the rails. How he wishes he had that moment in time back.
But more than anything, he wishes he could turn back the clock and tell Sal the truth. Maybe then, those long months of tragedy never would have happened. Maybe then, she would still be alive.
It takes Luke a moment to realize he’s being called.
Literally.
His cell phone vibrates on the workbench.
He’s about to refuse the call but then wonders if it might be Seth calling from some dive bar in the Florida Everglades to complain about the shitty working conditions. The thought brings a wry smile to lips. His brother can be a diva when he takes to the stage.
He grabs his phone. “Hello?”