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DELIA JONES (24) can make a piano sing. She writes melodies that sneak into your bones—jazz, blues, Tin Pan Alley bounce. But in the recording studios of Manhattan, her name doesn’t belong on the label. Her white producer, ARTHUR FLOOD, takes credit for everything. He keeps her in a windowless back room, pays her in meal tickets, and calls her “my little songbird” while locking the door from the outside.

Delia reluctantly agrees to teach him. Not perform. Not produce. Just… advise.

Delia is now ECHO ST. JAMES (65), a reclusive gospel choir director in South Central. She hasn’t touched secular music in forty years. But when a white British teenager—teen idol BILLY SUNDAY (17)—wanders into her church basement looking for “real soul,” something cracks open. Billy’s handlers have him singing bubblegum ditties. He wants to mean something.

Billy smuggles out cassette tapes of her new songs—blues-infused psych-pop with lyrics about borrowed voices and stolen credit. They become instant hits. Billy calls his mysterious collaborator “Echo.” The press goes wild. Who is this ghost?