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can do. What you decide to do is completely up to you, and I support whatever choice you make. By the way, have you spoken about this to anyone at that Nashville Songwriters Association we enrolled you in?”
    “No, but I will.”
    “Good.”
    CCC had paid the $150 yearly dues for Cindy to join the Nashville Songwriters Association International, NSAI, which we’d been advised was a wonderful organization in Nashville catering to songwriters, aspiring ones like Cindy and well-established veterans alike.
    “Thankyou, Mrs. Fletcher. Please don’t think I’m ungrateful. It’s just I’m such a newcomer here and don’t want to do anything to jeopardize my future. If I lose a song because I was naive and trusted someone I shouldn’t, well, then it’s my loss and I’ll know better next time. But this may turn out to be a great opportunity. I’ll never know if I don’t wait to see what happens.”
    “You’re a smart girl, Cindy,” I said. “I know whatever you do will be right. The most important thing is to make your time in Nashville productive. You’re there to learn and, just as important, to enjoy yourself.”
    Janet walked me to the door. “Jessica, I’m so grateful that you’re looking out for her. I feel much more confident now.”
    “I didn’t do very much, Janet, just made a few calls.”
    “Oh, but you care. You can’t know how much that means to me.”
    “Of course I care. We all do. The CCC wants this to be a positive experience for Cindy.”
    “But it’s more. That you, a celebrity and all, would take such a personal interest in my daughter, well, I’m simply overwhelmed.”
    “I think you’re giving me far too much credit, Janet,” I said, suddenly a bit uncomfortable. “The whole community is behind Cindy. I’m only a small part of it.”
    But I was about to become a larger part of it, and like it or not, it was all my own doing.

Chapter Four
    M y deeper involvement in Cindy Blaskowitz’s Nashville sojourn began on Monday morning a week later when Emily, Cindy’s sixteen-year-old sister, showed up at my door, dark circles beneath her eyes, her skin so pale the umber-colored freckles stood out in relief, making it appear as though she’d stepped in front of a paint sprayer.
    “Emily, is everything all right?” I asked, ushering her into the kitchen and pressing her into a chair.
    “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, my mother would kill me if she knew I was here.”
    “What is it, dear?”
    “It’s Cindy,” she moaned, drawing in a breath that ended in a hiccup.
    “Has something happened to her?”
    “We don’t know.”
    “I don’t understand. What don’t you know?”
    “We don’t know where she is.”
    “She’s missing?”
    Emily nodded, and exploded into tears. I plucked tissues from the box by the phone, tucked them in her hand, sat down, pulled my chair close to hers, and waited while she gathered her emotions.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, blowing her nose in a tissue and wiping her cheeks and eyes with her fingers. “I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be sorry,” I said. “Clearly you’re upset. But I can’t offer any help until you tell me the whole story.”
    “She always calls, the same time every night,” Emily said, “but now she hasn’t. We’re afraid something terrible has happened.”
    “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I said soothingly. “There could be myriad reasons why she didn’t call. Perhaps she lost her cell phone or forgot to charge it. That’s certainly happened to me a time or two. Or maybe she used up all the money on the phone card your mother gave her.”
    Emily shook her head mutely.
    “Or the cell tower might be down, or the electricity out,” I said, counting the possible reasons off on my fingers. “Those kinds of things happen routinely.”
    Her eyes filled again.
    “She might have gone away with friends for a few days,” I offered.
    We looked at each other in silence.
    “Why do you think she’s missing?” I asked.
    The story