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control over the music. But, like I said, we’re sure as hell not set for life or anything.” Disappointment shadowed her face for a heartbeat, then she straightened. “With a bigger label an artist is signed for a certain number of albums and on their first outing the label foots the bill to pretty much turn the artist into what they need to be. Styling, dance lessons, photos, all that. This money kind of becomes a tab of sorts and the artist usually doesn’t make any money until the tab has been paid back. The artist sometimes fails miserably and is let go, but if they’re successful, the label gets their return on the money they spent on the artist.”
    “And you don’t get any money until that tab is paid off?” I asked, incredulous.
    She smiled wryly. “Well, there’s usually some advance money, but we didn’t quite get that sort of deal. I guess one of the advantages of being with a smaller label is that they didn’t shell out a bunch of money on styling and choreography and stuff, so we don’t have to pay that off.” I could hear an edge of bitterness in her voice.
    “And how does your manager get paid?” Ryan asked. “A percentage of what you make?”
    Lida nodded. “It’s pretty much a big gamble all the way around.”
    The sound of the front door interrupted any further questions, and we turned to see a man wearing a business suit enter. Lida brightened and bounced to her feet. “Uncle Ben! These are the cops who chased down the guy last night and got me out of the river.”
    I stood, fighting back a juvenile smirk. Uncle Ben?
    Ben Moran dropped his coat on a chair by the door and strode forward with a warm smile. “I’m so delighted to meet you both. I’m Ben Moran, Lida’s uncle, and I can’t thank you enough for watching out for her last night.” He looked to be in his early fifties, though his hair had completely gone to gray. His face was smooth and barely wrinkled, but a heartbeat later I realized that he’d obviously had a fair amount of plastic surgery to achieve that look.
    Though why would anyone go through surgery to look younger and then not color his gray hair? I wondered silently. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I said aloud, shaking his hand. “I’m Detective Kara Gillian with Beaulac Police Department, and this is Special Agent Ryan Kristoff with the FBI.”
    Ben Moran turned to grip Ryan’s hand. “The pleasure is mine. Can I get either of you anything?”
    Ryan shook his head. “We’re just following up with your niece to see if there’s anything else we can determine that might help us locate her attacker.”
    A frown somehow managed to crease Moran’s forehead. “I thought the guy who grabbed her fell in the river. I figured he was gone and good riddance.” He looked briefly abashed and shook his head. “I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but I don’t like it when people mess with my family.”
    “That’s quite understandable, sir,” I said. “We, uh, have reason to believe that whoever it was managed to climb out of the river.” Might as well continue with the fiction that we’d come up with when it had happened. Even if the golem had been destroyed by its dunk in the river, whoever had created it was certainly still out there and possibly capable of making another. “Right now we’re trying to determine what motivations the attacker might have had.”
    Lida let out a sigh. “Does it really matter?”
    “We don’t want it to happen again,” Ryan replied.
    Ben Moran shook his head. “No, we don’t. But I’m more inclined to think it was a prank than a stalker. I mean, Lida’s not exactly Beyonce.” He shot his niece an apologetic look. “I don’t mean that as an insult, Lida.”
    She shrugged. “No, I get it. I don’t have the kind of fan base that would bring out the stalker type.” She tugged at a lock of hair that hung across her face. “I mean, shit. Our tours are small venues, bars and stuff, maybe ten or twelve gigs