“I spent most of the time alone in hotel rooms, readin’ books. I love to read. I guess that’s my form of escape. Not drugs or alcohol, but books. I disappear into them, and durin’ that time of my life, I needed them. I wasn’t watchin’ television or readin’ magazines because I was afraid I’d see or hear something about me. I know that sounds vain, but I just don’ have the personality to be in the spotlight. I realized I’d chosen the wrong profession, but I didn’t know how to get off the merry-go-round.”

“Being a public figure doesn’t necessarily mean you have to give up your privacy.”

“That’s naïve, Remy, and I think you know it. Anyone chosin’ to be in the public eye is free game. Being Bodrie’s daughter I was already there from the time I was born. Like an idiot, tryin’ to prove something to myself and to others . . .”

“What, Bijou? What did you ever need to prove to anyone, let alone yourself?” Remy asked, his thumb sliding gently back and forth across the backs of her hands.

She ducked her head. “That I was good enough. Everyone wanted me to be him and when I first started singin’, people were saying things like, ‘What does she think she’s doin’. She has no talent.’ They always compared me to him, and of course I came off second best.”

“Are you crazy? You’re a total success in your own right. Half the planet is in love with you and your voice.”

She shrugged. “It didn’t start out that way, but by the time I’d made a name for myself I realized that wasn’t my world—that I didn’t even want it. Can you imagine how that made me feel? I was a success and people loved my music. I felt like the ungrateful brat the tabloids and all of Bodrie’s fans thought me. Here I had everything I’d wanted and dreamt of and I still wasn’t happy.” She looked him in the eye, wanting him to understand. “I was so miserable I could barely drag myself out of my room, but I performed nearly every night. I found myself exhausted and so unhappy I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror.”

She took a deep breath. “I guess I’m just tryin’ to explain to you why I wasn’t up on the news. I hid from everyone while I was on tour and then when I made the decision to quit, I hid from my manager because he was so angry with me. I needed time to figure out what I really wanted to do.”

Quite frankly she was ashamed of having to tell him she didn’t have her life together, not even when she was young. She wanted him to see only her good side, not all the floundering and angst she’d gone through before she realized what she needed—and wanted in her life. For all the crazy things going on around her now, she knew she was right to have come home. She loved her club. She loved the intimacy of it and the fact that she could control when she performed and how often. She was certain she would fit into the community given time, and the paparazzi would lose interest and eventually leave her alone.

She didn’t want him to think she was a loser sitting in her hotel room, feeling sorry for herself and not even watching the news when other people were suffering, being murdered and he was trying hard to put a stop to it.

“I’m glad you’ve come home. Butterfield’s upset because he’s losing his money ticket.”

“He says I’m letting my fans down,” she said. “And I suppose he’s right.”

“If they’re fans, Blue, they’ll love what you love. Just because you aren’t singin’ rock and roll like your father, that doesn’t take away your voice.”

She smiled at him. She couldn’t help it. He talked in that velvety smooth tone and looked at her with those piercing, amazing eyes of his and her stomach did flip-flops. Her heart beat far too fast and her mouth went dry. He just had so much charisma, a magnetic pull she couldn’t seem to ever resist. She knew better than to fall for his charm—he’d made it very clear his attraction had little to do with her—but still, she found it hard not to react to him.

“Thanks, Remy. I hope you’re right, but if not, I know the club is what I want.”

“Good girl. I think the club suits you, but more than that, you need to do what makes you happy.”

“I didn’t have anything at all to do with those murders, Remy,” she said, making certain to look him in the eye. She was in the same city where every one of the murders occurred.

“I know that. I can’t imagine you hoisting a grown man up a tree, let alone carvin’ him up. I didn’t think for one moment you had anything to do with the murders, Bijou,” Remy said. “But it’s very possible you know the killer.”

She wanted to protest, but her gaze strayed through the glass toward the map on the murder board. There was no denying the fact that where every single murder took place, she had been present. “I do have a few extremely devoted fans,” she admitted. “They follow me from one concert to the next. Some even followed me out of the country on my world tour. There’s a special group that run a fan club and the members are the first ones to be able to buy tickets and backstage passes.”

“Can we get a list of their names? Do you know them all by sight?”

“I’d recognize the ones who come backstage on a regular basis, but if they don’, and not all of them do, there’s no way I’d be able to recognize them. In any case, Remy, I can’t remember who was at what concert.”

Remy tightened his hands around Bijou’s. She was extremely distressed, but holding herself together. He could feel the tension in her. Her hands trembled beneath his. The idea of knowing a serial killer, that he might be traveling to her concerts and killing at every event, sickened her.