Stolen Blues, Spectral Frequencies, and the $40 Million Studio Betrayal: Former Addict Songstress Nia Dupree Confronts Her Predatory Stepfather Marcus Holloway in a Gothic Battle Over Her Late Moth...
Devante and I stood in the stifling heat of my late mother’s attic. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight cutting through a grimy window. Cardboard boxes, stacks of sheet music, and a lifetime of forgotten treasures surrounded us.
“She kept everything,” I murmured, running my hand over a faded guitar case. The air smelled of aged paper and dried flowers.
“This is where the magic happened, right?” Devante asked, picking up an old microphone stand. “Her home studio.”
He was looking for any physical records: contracts, letters, even handwritten notes. Anything to link Marcus directly to the initial theft of “Hollow Soul.”
I led him to a corner piled high with vinyl records. This was Mama’s sanctuary.
“She always said the real stories were hidden in the grooves,” I said, pulling out a worn copy of Etta James’s *At Last!*. The cover was soft from years of handling.
“Any specific records related to ‘Hollow Soul’?” Devante asked, carefully sifting through a box of demo tapes.
“Not directly,” I replied. “But she had a habit of tucking things inside album gatefolds. Reminders. Little secrets.”
I remembered the letter. The one whose contents had empowered me to face Marcus. I had found it months ago, tucked inside an old blues record. A record I’d kept hidden.
Now, as Devante searched, I felt compelled to show him where I’d made my own discovery.
“Here,” I said, pulling out an obscure 70s blues album, “Mama always loved this one. Said it reminded her of her own ancestral roots.”
I opened the gatefold. There, tucked deeply into the crease, was a thin, yellowed envelope. I already knew its message. But something else caught my eye.
Beneath where the letter had been, the gatefold’s inner sleeve was slightly torn, revealing a sliver of another, even older document pressed flat.
“What’s this?” Devante leaned in, his eyes sharp. He carefully peeled back the tearing paper.
It was a fragment of a formal document, thick parchment, dated years before “Hollow Soul” ever became a hit. It looked like an early registration of musical works.
“This looks like an original copyright ledger entry,” Devante whispered, carefully pulling it free. “Or at least, a copy.”
His fingers traced the faded print. “Camille Dupree… composer, lyricist… music by Camille Dupree…”
Then, his finger stopped. A sharp inhale.
“Look at this,” he said, pointing to a section near the bottom. There was a faint smudge, almost imperceptible, over the name of the *publisher*.
“It looks like an alteration,” Devante said, pulling out a small magnifying glass from his bag. “Someone tried to scratch out and replace the original publishing entity.”
Beneath the faint, almost invisible erasure, we could just make out three letters: H.S.R. Holloway Sound Records.
But the original name, almost completely obliterated, was a different entity altogether. A smaller, independent publishing house. One that Mama had worked with early in her career.
“He didn’t just steal the song,” I breathed, the realization cold and sharp. “He erased her name from the *original copyright ledger*.”
Devante nodded slowly. “This isn’t just a contract dispute, Nia. This is blatant fraud. Changing original ownership records. This is concrete proof he tried to bury her name, to claim the intellectual property entirely as his own, from the very beginning.”
The silence in the attic was heavy, punctuated only by the distant sounds of New Orleans traffic. This wasn’t just about money. It was about identity. About legacy. And Marcus had tried to wipe it clean.
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