West Dutton sat forward, elbows on his knees, a half-empty bottle of beer forgotten in his hand.

On screen, the shimmering lights of the Grammy stage blazed. A woman in a silver gown stepped up to the microphone, her blonde hair falling in soft waves, her smile bright enough to rival the chandeliers.

Anna.

Then she looked straight into the camera. Straight through the screen. Straight into the dim, quiet living room of a ranch in nowhere, Tennessee.

He just stared.