I steadied myself, but I had no words, my mind a vast, empty space.
She clicked her tongue. “No need to let the mistakes of yesterday become the mistakes of tomorrow. As the orchestra has clearly been taking away too much of your time and turning your focus to yourself rather than to others, my only course of action is to shut it down. Its fate was already in question after the arrest of the conductor, and this is the final straw.”
Adrenaline coursed through my body and I found my voice again. “Mamá, please. The arts uplift a community, and the orchestra is part of the rich culture of Austen Heights. I’m sorry I’ve neglected my role and I promise I’ll do more to live up to the de Bourgh name.” My next words were so low they were almost a whisper. “Please don’t shut it down.”
She eyed me shrewdly, a bird considering its prey. “And the young man?”
My heart pounded painfully in my chest. “I’ll end it,” I said quietly.
I headed to my room, pulled out my violin, and poured myself into the music, heedless of tone or technique, my bow racing along the stings. I played Mendelssohn, reveling in the speed, the violence of it, fromallegro molto appassionatotoallegretto non troppo. Time flew as I vented my rage and it slowly turned to sorrow, tears blurring my eyes. But I didn’t need to see, I knew this piece from memory. So I let the tears fall, my chest aching.
Chapter 12
Mymotherwaspleasedwhen I told her I was going to a hockey game with Walter. It wasn’t a date, but she didn’t have to know that, and spending time with a guy from her ‘approved’ list should go a long way toward getting her off my back. If only she knew that the real reason I had asked him was so that I could find out if he was the murderer, she wouldn’t have been so happy about it.
I was clear when I’d texted Walter that this was just a hangout. He’d responded with a smiley face wearing sunglasses emoji, which presumably meant he was on board. He’d offered to pick me up, but I wanted to stay after and talk to Ernesto, though the thought of doing so opened up a pit in my stomach so deep I couldn’t feel the bottom. I still didn’t know what I was going to say to him. But this was his most important game of the season. They were playing their rivals, the Ice Holes, and I wanted to support him and watch him play.
“I didn’t know you were a hockey fan,” Walter said, eyeing the baby blue Clef Hangers T-shirt I’d bought for the occasion andthe #44 painted on my cheek. I’d added that in the parking lot before coming in, not wanting to see what my mother would do if I tried to leave the house with paint on my face.
“I don’t know much about hockey,” I said. “But I’m definitely interested in it.”
We found our seats in the front row, across from the Clef Hangers penalty box. One minute into the game, I realized my plan to talk to Walter about the murder wasn’t the best idea. The crowd was so loud I had to turn on my noise canceling ear buds. They helped a little, but they weren’t enough to completely drown out the buzz of the crowd.
It seemed like an eternity before Neto’s eyes drifted from the rink to the crowd. I could tell the exact moment he saw me because he grinned, and my heart dropped to the floor.
I was supposed to give him up, to do my duty to the fae monarchy and make my mother proud, but his eyes when he took in the #44 painted on my cheek sent a wave of longing through me that knocked all thoughts of ending it clean out of my head. I couldn’t lose him. I’d keep it from my mother, lie if I had to, but I wouldn’t give him up.
Neto was focused on the ice, intense in a way I’d never seen before. Despite my limited hockey knowledge, I could tell by the crowd’s response that he made some really impressive moves. The large screen in the center of the rink scanned the crowd, and my mouth dropped open as it featured two gorgeous girls in crop tops with number 44, Neto’s number, painted on their washboard abs. I glared at them.
At halftime we bought popcorn from a pixie who buzzed around the crowd, her iridescent wings shining in the lights. “How’s your duet coming along?” Walter shouted above the crowd.
“It’s good. Better than when I’d been singing with Paolo, actually.”
He gave me a sidelong glance. “Yeah, you and Ernesto seem to have a lot of chemistry.”
I shrugged his comment off. “Do you have any theories on who might have killed Paolo?”
“Maybe it was you. Getting Paolo out of the way gave you the opportunity to sing with Ernesto Garcia.”
I made a noise of disgust. “I would never kill someone, and that’s a stupid motive. Besides, I had no way of knowing who would replace Paolo.”
Walter laughed. “No need to be defensive, I was kidding. The cops are pretty sure it was Fred, but they can’t prove it.”
We both looked out toward the goal that Fred defended, even though he was in the locker room getting a halftime pep-talk. Or maybe he was the one giving it. “It wasn’t Fred,” I said.
He shrugged. “Probably not. He doesn’t seem the type. My money’s on Cecelia, she’s mean as a bull shark.”
“Yeah, her or James.” I didn’t want him to know I’d already ruled both of them out. “It is interesting, though, Fred being in hot water with the police opened up the way for you to conduct the orchestra.”
He snorted. “If I were going to get rid of Fred, I’d have killed him directly, not framed him. And I would never do it myself. I’d order an untraceable hit.”
I believed him about that; he wasn’t one to get his hands dirty. And wanting Fred’s spot in the orchestra was a pretty poor reason to kill Paolo. But maybe he had another reason, something I hadn’t figured out yet.
I squared my shoulders. “I know you weren’t in the practice room during the murder.”
Walter smoothed his blonde hair back from his face, and even with my powers muted, I could see the slight tremor in his hand. “And what makes you think that? I thought you were inside practicing the whole time.”
“I was. But you answered the door for the delivery guy,” I said.
