DAVID GILMOUR

I stared at his photo on the beach—dark sunglasses, jeans rolled at the ankles, a black T-shirt, barefoot. He did not fool anyone. I would have recognized him even on the other side of the world. Amara walked beside him. In that picture, they were not holding hands. They were simply close, moving in the same rhythm.

I handed the phone back to Simone.

“Jimi Hendrix, Jimmy Page, and now David Gilmour.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Simone frowned.

“His ...