(Maya)
The police show up during load-in for the fifth show, and I know immediately that everything is about to go to hell.
"Maya Ellery?" The detective is a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a no-nonsense attitude. "I'm Detective Rodriguez. We want to ask you a few questions about Jake Calder."
My mouth goes dry. Around us, the crew continues setting up equipment, but I can feel curious glances in our direction. Word spreads fast in this business, and having cops asking questions backstage is never a good sign.
"Of course. How can I help?"
"Is there somewhere private we can talk?"
I lead them to an empty dressing room, my hands shaking slightly as I close the door. Detective Rodriguez is joined by a younger officer who pulls out a notepad and pen.
"We understand you went on a date with Mr. Calder the day he was killed."
"Yes. Coffee. Around noon."
"How well did you know him?"
"I didn't, really. My friend Chloe set us up. It was a blind date."
Detective Rodriguez nods, making notes. "We accessed Mr. Calder's phone records. He texted you that evening about someone following him home from work. A person in a dark green hoodie."
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure they can hear it. "He did text me, yes. But I thought he was probably just being paranoid."
"Did you have any reason to believe someone might want to hurt Mr. Calder?"
"No. Like I said, I barely knew him."
The detective pulls out her phone and shows me a video that makes me sick to my stomach. It's the fan video with Kai in the background.
"We've seen this footage that has been circulating online. The timestamp shows it was taken in Mr. Calder's neighborhood around the time he would have been leaving work. Do you recognize the person in the hoodie?"
I stare at the screen, my mind racing. If I lie and they find out later, I'll look guilty of something. But if I tell them it's Kai, I'm pointing them toward someone I care about.
"I… I'm not sure. The hood makes it hard to see."
"It looks like it could be the same person Mr. Calder described in his text to you. Same clothing, same area, same timeframe."
"Maybe. I don't know."
Detective Rodriguez leans forward slightly. "Maya, we know you work as an assistant tour Manager for this tour. We know this person in the video appears to be Kai Nakamura. Would Mr. Nakamura have had any reason to follow or harm someone you went on a date with?"
I swallow hard.
"I … I don't know."
"Was anyone with Mr. Nakamura at the venue that afternoon? Anyone who could verify his whereabouts?"
"I… I don't remember. There are always a lot of people around during setup."
Detective Rodriguez exchanges a look with her partner. "If you think of anything else, please call us immediately. This is a murder investigation, and we need all the help we can get."
After they leave, I sit in the empty dressing room trying to process what happened. The police suspect Kai. They have evidence placing him in Jake's neighborhood at the right time, wearing the right clothes, and I just lied to them.
For the rest of the day, I go through the motions of my job while my mind spins in circles. Every time I see Kai, I study his face, looking for signs of guilt or innocence. But he has gone back to ignoring me completely. Maybe that's for the best.
The next morning, I woke up to my phone buzzing nonstop with notifications—missed calls, texts, and social media alerts. Something big had happened.
I check the news, and my stomach drops.
"ROCK STAR QUESTIONED IN CONNECTION TO CHICAGO MURDER" screams the headline of the first article. Below is a screenshot of Kai from the video and a cropped screenshot of Jake's text to me. Someone leaked it. Someone told the press that Kai is connected to Jake's murder.
My phone rings. It's Rebecca, and she sounds like she's having a panic attack.
"Maya, thank god. Don't come to the arena today. It's a madhouse. There are reporters everywhere, fans, protesters. Security can't control it."
"How bad is it?"
"Bad. Really bad. The label is freaking out, Marcus is fielding calls from lawyers, and Kai… Well, Kai's not handling it well."
I spent the day glued to my phone, watching the story explode across social media. The reactions are split down the middle. Half of his fans are defending him viciously, claiming it's all lies and conspiracy, while the other half are sharing stories about meeting him backstage and describing him as cold, arrogant, and temperamental.
"Always knew there was something off about him," someone commented. "Guy has serious anger issues."
"He screamed at me for looking at him wrong," says someone who claimed to have worked catering on a previous tour. "Totally unhinged."
"My friend tried to get a selfie with him, and he shoved her away. Aggressive doesn't even begin to cover it."
The more I read, the worse it gets. People are coming out of the woodwork with stories about Kai's difficult personality, outbursts, and reputation for being impossible to work with. Whether they're true or not doesn't seem to matter. The narrative is building, and it's not in his favor.
By evening, #KaiNakamuraMurderer is trending.
The next show is a disaster from the moment the doors open. I watch from the wings as protesters gather outside the venue alongside die-hard fans. Marcus had insisted Kai perform for some reason, promising to triple the security.
Kai takes the stage looking like he hasn't slept in days. His usual confidence is replaced by something brittle. When he starts the first song, his voice cracks slightly on the high notes.
That's when it happens.
Someone in the crowd throws a bottle. It hits Kai in the shoulder, and he stumbles backward, his guitar cutting out with a screech of feedback.
"Murderer!" someone screams from the audience.
"Justice for Jake!" yells another voice.
More objects started flying—bottles, shoes, anything people could get their hands on. Kai tries to keep playing, but it's chaos. Security rushes the stage as fans turn on each other, some defending him, others joining the assault.
I watch in horror as Kai stands in the middle of it all, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead where something sharp caught him. He looks lost, vulnerable, unlike the confident rock star who commanded this stage just days ago.
Our eyes meet across the chaos for a moment, and I see something that makes my chest ache. He looks like the scared boy who used to climb through my window when the world got too heavy. Then security pulls him offstage seconds before the arena erupts into full-scale riots.
The tour is suspended indefinitely the next morning, so I may be out of work now. Marcus issues a statement about "focusing on the ongoing investigation and ensuring everyone's safety." Translation: they're cutting their losses until this blows over.
If it blows over.
Kai, on the other hand, has gone incognito. Not that he's present on social media, but he occasionally posts random quotes on his Instagram story. Now, the only activity on his page is the death threats and loyalty pledges he's getting tagged in. Despite everything, I can't stop worrying about him.
Three days later, I'm home trying to figure out what to do with my life on a rainy night when someone pounds on my door at eleven PM.
I look through the peephole, and my heart stops.
Kai is standing in my hallway, dripping wet and swaying slightly. His hair is plastered to his head, his clothes are soaked through, and even from here I can smell the alcohol on him.
"Maya." His voice is muffled through the door, but I can hear the desperation in it. "Please. I need… I need to talk to you."
I should call the police or tell him to go away. I should do anything except open the door, but that's exactly what I do.
He's worse up close. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale except for the healing cut on his forehead, and he's shivering badly.
"Can I come in? Please?"
Every instinct I have screams at me to say no. This man might be a murderer. This man might have killed Jake because I went on a coffee date.
But he's also the boy who used to make me laugh when I was sad, taught me to play guitar, and gave me a forehead kiss under the bleachers at our high school football game.
"You're drunk."
"I know."
"And you're a suspect in a murder investigation."
"I know that, too."
We stare at each other for a long moment, rain dripping from his clothes onto my hallway carpet.
"I didn't do it, Maya. I swear to god, I didn't kill anyone."
I pause. Something in his voice—a rawness, a vulnerability—makes me believe him despite everything.
Or maybe that's just what I want to believe.
Against my better judgment, I step aside and let him in.