August 2nd, 1970

    We arrived at the hotel in Paris at three o’clock in the morning, having left not long after the Reims show ended. Tonight’s show would be held in one of the popular Right Bank Parisian districts at a concert hall, with tomorrow’s performance taking place at a medium-sized club on the outskirts of the city.
    When Cameron and I checked into the hotel and got to our room, I immediately asked him what had happened with Dale in the dressing room.
    “I’ve been trying to figure it out myself,” he admitted. Cameron sat on the bed and shook his head. “I’ve never seen the man cry, let alone sob as he did.”
    I sat beside him and put my hand on his. “He’s lost a child, though, even if it wasn’t his own.”
    “Yes, he has.” Cameron nodded. “But the letter isn’t explicit. He showed it to me, in the room, before he spoke.”
    I sighed, my head resting on his shoulder. “So, we don’t know if Isabelle is dead, or if she’s just been taken,” I assumed.
    “Dale believes she’s dead. He said Philippe has always had a short temper and his sister only married him to escape England.”
    “Well, in about sixteen hours we’ll find out from Sandra herself.”
    “Dale doesn’t want to see her before the performance. Said he wants to do the show before he hears anything else from his sister.”


    Sandra had shown up at the venue just as the band headed to the stage. I was called over by one of the security guards, who had told her she couldn’t get in without a ticket.
    “This woman says she knows your singer,” the gruff Frenchman told me.
    “You’re Dale’s sister?” I asked.
    “Yes,” she answered. “My name is Sandra.”
    I spoke to the guard in French and told him she could enter without issue. I guided her into a room apart from the main backstage area and asked her if she needed anything.
    “I suppose Dale showed everyone my letter,” she said, feeling dejected. Her accent was thick; she had obviously not spoken English in many months.
    “Only me, and Cameron,” I told her, switching to French. “Do you know him?”
    “Yes,” she answered, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Cameron has always been a kind man.”
    She asked for coffee, then, so I left her in the dressing room and prepared two strong cups. When I returned, I nudged the door closed with my foot and put the cups down on the table.
    “What happened?” I asked, not able to hold back any longer. “Are you doing okay?”
    “I suppose I can tell you, if you already know what I’ve sent my brother…”


    The band’s performance was in full swing as Sandra explained to me what had happened, through tears and sniffles. One day in the spring, Philippe had launched himself into a rage and taken a walk to calm himself. Isabelle went with him, and they were gone for hours. When her husband returned, his hands were bloody and he announced that their daughter was dead.
    Sandra launched herself at him in motherly rage and began to hit him. He struck her and she fell to the ground, only waking hours later to find herself alone in the house. Philippe had taken nothing but the money from their safe, and her daughter’s life. Sandra filed a police report and was told, weeks later, that he had been arrested and was imprisoned for Isabelle’s murder.
    “He confessed to the police,” she whispered. “Didn’t deny it, claim insanity, nothing. Just said he did it and knew what he was doing.”
    I comforted as best I could. Recounting the events had taken time, and during the silence of Sandra’s grief, I heard the band enter the backstage area.
    “They’ve finished the show. Would you like me to bring Dale to you?” I asked her.
    Sandra simply nodded.
    I squeezed her hand in assurance and left the room, keeping the door slightly ajar. Cameron walked towards me as I appeared from the hallway. I nodded almost imperceptibly to inform him of what I was about to do.
    I approached Dale, who was at the drinks table.
    “She’s here?” he asked, then filled a small glass with vodka and drank it as a shot.
    “Third room to the left,” I informed him.
    Dale took another double shot of vodka and walked off towards the dressing room.
    “God help them,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else.
    Cameron came up to me with a worried look. “How is she?”
    “Distraught beyond measure,” I told him, before quietly sharing the story I’d been told. As I told him of Philippe’s confession, we heard a loud bang quickly followed by a scream. Cameron and I bolted to the dressing room, though not before another bang echoed through the hallway.
    Sandra was crying, once more, and a broken cup lay on the ground surrounded by spilled coffee. Dale, despite having been semi-composed before entering the room, was now belligerent and throwing things.
    “Cameron,” I shouted, “Grab him and calm him the fuck down!”
    I took Sandra by the arm and pulled her out of the room and away from her brother. It had taken more effort than I expected to restrain myself from pummelling Dale and having Cameron escort Sandra out of the room. Lee began to walk towards us as we entered the main room, and though I knew he was the most understanding man available at the moment, I shook my head to deter him from continuing his approach.
    I sat down with Sandra on one of the small couches, this one was against the far wall. I spoke French, so no one would understand and she could speak freely.
    “Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”
    “No, no. I’m alright,” she assured me between sniffles. “He wasn’t trying to hit me.”
    “You’re sure? I’ve never seen him like that,” I noted.
    “I have. Many times. He’s been drinking, has he not?”
    I nodded. It was true, not only had Dale downed two double shots of straight vodka before seeing his sister, but he had been quick to get to a bottle in his hand lately.
    “He loses his temper more, when he drinks.” Her tone was thick with sadness. “Don’t they all?”
    “Yes.” My reply was certain but sympathetic. “Did Philippe abuse you? Before, I mean.”
    “Sometimes,” she admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “A slap here or there. Never in front of Isabelle.”
    “At least he has some decency,” I spat. “Some people don’t.”
    As if sensing the unspoken, Sandra looked right at me. In her eyes I recognized my own pain, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to cry with someone who understood.