After Harper left, Sophia's phone buzzed.
"Hello? Mr. Turner—what's up?"
"I'm calling to tell you your album will drop the day after tomorrow."
"Can you push it back?"
There was a pause on the line. "Why?"
"I sang that song at the bar last night. If that's a problem, you can skip paying the composer fee."
"You are being ridiculously impulsive. Do you know how much loss that would cause?"
Sophia didn't care about money. One of the country's most mysterious composers—"April"—was another identity of hers. Maybe talent had been too generous to her: she'd tinkered casually, and somehow an album sold over a hundred million copies. The song she sang in the bar last night was from that new release. It had been an impulse—and she hadn't thought through the consequences.
When she hung up, she turned and found the six kids lined up like they'd been waiting, faces shouting, I knew it.
