Page 53 of Tracking Wolfe

I turned back to my songwriting when I realized my journal wasn’t on the picnic table where I thought I’d left it.

I stepped into the van and glanced around, relieved to realize I must have put it away when Jake and Shay showed up. But it wasn’t on the counter where I’d had it earlier or under the pillow where I usually kept it.

As I continued looking around the van and through my backpack and guitar case, a twist of unease began in my stomach. Where the fuck was my journal? Not only did it have snippets of my thoughts and feelings, but it also had three completed Fletcher Coe songs, along with notes on at least four others.

The lyrics and music from the completed ones had already been sent off to my manager, but the original notes in my journal were proof I’d created them. If my copyright was challenged, those notes were evidence of my process.

My brain scrambled back to the last time I remembered writing in it, just before Shay and Jake had turned up. I’d sat on the picnic table outside in the sun, jotting down notes.

I returned to the table and scoured every inch of the area, walked a circle around the van while peering underneath it, and finally glanced around at the people near me to see if maybe it had been dropped outside of my immediate campsite.

Nothing.

If I’d been working on it at the table before Jake and Shay arrived, that meant I’d had it after Trace had left the campground. At least that was something. I couldn’t imagine the humiliation I’d feel if he read my private thoughts about him. Having him realize I’d put those feelings into song lyrics would be even worse.

But then… where was the journal? Was it possible Jake or Shay had taken it? Or Brennan?

I couldn’t imagine Jake would have done it. What would he have to gain?

I’d watched Brennan walk away with Pup, but I’d been distracted at the time.

And then there was Shay. Who had a slight case of hero worship toward me. And taking my journal sounded like something a teenage girl might do, especially if she thought it had music stuff in it. Would she be able to put two and two together? She’d mentioned Fletcher Coe before when we’d talked about songs.

I racked my brain, trying to remember what, exactly, was in my journal. Thoughts, lyrics, notes about the musical composition. Private thoughts of Trace, even though I only referred to him by an initial. Notes for Sunny, too, about reaching out to specific artists I thought might add an interesting angle to each song.

Fuck.

I continued searching frantically, hoping I was wrong. I even considered begging for Trace’s help when I noticed his rental car pull back into the campground… but one insidious thought stopped me.

Complaining about someone reading my diary sounded like something a child would say.

And I refused to give Trace any reason to dismiss me as a helpless child.

14

TRACE

Wolfe was acting unsettled and nervous that night. It was a stark departure from the relaxed and adorably blushing version of him I’d left hours earlier.

On the outside, he was friendly and smiling. A little reserved in the larger group, which was how he’d always been. But otherwise, seemingly fine.

Except he kept rubbing the far side of his index finger with the top of his thumbnail—a sign of anxiety he’d picked up years ago.

Before leaving Montrose that afternoon, I’d picked up a foldable camp chair so I could sit next to Wolfe around the fire. But now that I was here among his new friends and sitting next to him, it still didn’t seem close enough.

I reached over and put my hand over his worrying fingers. “Would you rather I not be here?” I asked softly. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “No! No, that’s not… I’m glad you’re here.”

I could feel eyes on us, so I quickly removed my hand. “Talk to me. You’re upset about something.”

“I’m not,” he lied, going right back to the little finger movements without realizing what he was doing. “How was the rest of your day?”

There was so much I wanted to say to him—about Fletcher Coe, about how proud I was of his talent, about how the hell he was handling the secrecy and fame—but this was definitely not the place to do it.

“Interesting,” I admitted, trying to relax back into the stiff new camp chair. “I went into Montrose and got some work done.”

His eyes flicked to the fire in the center of the group. “You must be anxious to get back to SERA.”