"But I left them right here, Max!" Brian Littrell wailed, pointing to the music stand in the third practice studio. Max scracthed the back of his head thoughtfully, humming in disapproval and frowning. "Max, that was the only copy of that song that I had! Where is it? It could not have just gotten up and walked away!" Max sighed tiredly, resting a hand on Brian's shoulder.
"Brian, no one was in the studios since we left last night, " he sighed. "Except--" He stopped abruptly, his brow furrowing. "Beatrice Denise Williams! Get in here right now!" His voice came as a bellow, echoing down the hallway to the vending machines where Beezus stood. He leaned out the door, glaring at her, and she came skipping back.
"Yes, uncle Max?" she asked sweetly, rocking back and forth on her feet. "You rang?" Dry sarcasm replaced the sticky-sweetness in her voice, her smile dropping into a frown.
"Trish, you are twenty-two years old, for gossake could you please act like it?" She stood still, shifting her weight impatiently. "Now, earlier when you were looking through the practice studios, did you happen upon a set of lyrics?"
"Lyrics?" she echoed, remebering quite clearly the the papers she had obtained. "Like those ones that I was looking at before, in your office? On the desk?" Max nodded, holding out one hand to recieve the lyrics. "Hmm. . .You know, I don't seem to recall seeing any papers like that. Maybe you should ask your friend here." She nodded towards Brian, who was nervously pacing the office. She understood quite clearly that she was lying through her teeth, the corner of the folded papers in her pocket were digging into her stomach, but she hadn't gotten a chance to read them yet and didn't feel like handing them over just yet.
"All right, then. . .If you see them, tell me immediately so that I can get them," he said, turning back and retreating into the office. "Or you'll be regretting coming to Orlando at all." Brian was still continuously pacing the floor, and pounced on him upon his return.
"Well? Where are they? Did you get them? Did she have them?" he demanded quickly, wringing his hands. Max shrugged with a sigh, shaking his head at the younger man.
"Sorry." Brian huffed out his breath, falling onto the leather couch along one wall. "Listen, if I find them, I'll tell you right away. But I can't make any promises about it," he reassured him. "At least we have that tape we recorded last night. You can transcribe the words from that, if we don't find them." Brian grimaced, scoffing at the mention of the recording.
"Max, that was awful. It sucked ass. It was worse than. . .well. . .Well, did you ever get a chance to see that Men Strike Back performance? The concert on VH1 when we are all flat?" He shuddered at rememberance, and stood up quickly, beginning to pace again. "It was bad. Ugh, this is the worse thing that has ever happened to me! I mean, besides all of that other stuff. . .The heart surgury and Kev's dad and Denniz and. . ." He whimpered, his mouth pulling into a frown and his brow knitting tightly. "Shit, this is really bad!" He fell into the couch and dropped his head into his hands out of frustration.
"If I can find them, Brian, I will let you know as soon as I possibly can. But I can't make any promises. Trish is the only suspect, and she denies everything honestly," he said. Brian growled under his breath, slouching down in his seat on the sofa.
"She took them, Max, I just know she did." Max paused, studying Brian a minute before continuing to sort through his desk drawers.
"To be honest, I accuse her too. She's the only possible known suspect, and she has been known to lie on occasion. But, you know, she's innocent according to democracy. She's innocent until proven guilty." He sighed. "That's the reality of it, and there's not a lot I can do."