Lance was in the audience for the very last Justin Timberlake performance ever.
He never told anyone.
He didn't tell Joey, when Joey called to say that Access Hollywood was citing "breakdown" and "trauma" two days later.
He didn't tell Johnny, who still managed all of Justin's side projects in some fancy contracts that Lance helped to draft up almost six years go. He didn't tell the current label, who had called him only after they called everyone else and still couldn't get in contact with Justin after the show.
He didn't tell anyone, and so no one knows that the last time Lance actually saw Justin wasn't at the dinner the five of them had three weeks before that. He didn't tell anyone that he saw Justin recite his poetry like a new Beat, he didn't tell anyone that he could recite the set list a week later. A week became a month, and then a year, and now he can still recite the set list.
He didn't tell Lynn what Justin looked like on-stage. He didn't tell her, because he figured she'd seen him on this tour at least one or two dates. He didn't tell anyone, even after everyone from the various labels Justin was attached to, and Johnny, and Joey and JC and Lynn herself called him and asked "have you seen Justin?"
A lot of people asked him "have you seen Justin?" those two weeks. He didn't tell them "yes".
When JC called the day after, sobbing as he explained the extent of Justin's disappearance, Lance kept sober, Lance kept in control. Justin had had a hard year, but he'd be fine, he told JC. He'd be fine. The fact that he wasn't answering his phone wasn't a reason to panic. Maybe he just needed a break.
He didn't tell JC that he'd seen the show, because that would mean owning up to the fact that he'd driven to San Francisco, bought a ticket. That he'd gone miles and miles to be one more person to love Justin, and at the time Lance would have gone out of his way in any direction to keep that to himself.
He didn't tell the press and the public what the breaking point for Justin Timberlake was, because even having seen it point blank, Lance still has no idea. His last memory of Justin is watching him place the microphone down on his stool carefully, waving to the band and smiling at the audience, walking into the wings and abruptly ending the show.
He didn't tell anyone that he made it backstage just in time to see that he was too late. He hadn't told anyone he was coming, so he didn't have a pass. He pushed through the crowd, everyone in the audience still clamoring over torn pages like pieces of gold plated confetti, and talked his way backstage on the value of his face alone. And the value of his face wasn't quite what it used to be, and so by the time somebody who recognized him let him through, Justin was already gone and gone and not coming back.
The roadies, the venue security, JC, Lynn, Johnny and a lot of other people who weren't there but all seemed to be in the know, they all agreed that Justin went straight from the stage to his car -- he'd insisted on driving himself to all of the venues, Lance hadn't known that -- and driven into frantic oblivion. Lance didn't tell them that he saw a phone that looked like Justin's, laying discarded beside a garbage can. He didn't tell them that he caught the flash of the number, and that he'd recognize the 407 area code and phone number anywhere.
He didn't get a chance to tell anyone anything, because three days after Justin disappeared, everyone stopped everything to focus on Chris, and then he didn't want to tell anyone anything anymore.
JC spent a lot of time in the next few months, as Justin refused to resurface in more than a vague paper trail, murmuring about how he didn't get to say goodbye.
He didn't tell JC that he'd gotten to say goodbye and it wasn't any better. He didn't tell Joey that he'd been one of those few thousand people, some of the last to see Justin Timberlake in the public eye. He didn't tell Lynn that her little boy looked fine because Justin didn't.
He especially didn't tell Chris. Lance still wonders if he should have.