The others came quickly, and input flooded my senses as they all reacted to the news and began asking questions. It only got worse when the police arrived. They roped off the stage and ushered everyone to the backstage rehearsal area.
The Austen Heights Police Department had two divisions, one for those Marked by magic and one without, and both werepresent today, distinguished by the insignia on their uniforms. A fae police officer with a long ponytail spoke quietly to a pair of officers, low enough that I was the only one who could hear what he said across the room. “We’ve examined the body and no magic was used in the murder. Forensics is in there now.”
I slipped into a chair in a corner of the room and closed my eyes. It was especially difficult for me to block out my ability when I was upset or scared, so the best I could do was eliminate what sensory input I could.
Footsteps approached, and I opened my eyes to a woman in a blue uniform. She tucked a strand of her short brown bob behind her ear and extended her hand to me. “Hi, Anne, I’m officer Tessa Littlefield. My partner and I have a few questions for you.”
She led me to a rehearsal room, not the one I’d used today but the one next to it, and I sighed with relief as I entered the familiar space with its sound-dampening panels. Someone had pushed the glockenspiel up against a wall to accommodate three chairs, one of which held another detective, an older man with salt and pepper hair and one pant leg caught in his white tube socks. He smiled at me kindly and handed me a steaming cup of tea.
I thanked him, but set the cup untouched on the table next to an old tape recorder. The last thing I needed right now was to add more sensory input from the taste of the tea.
I settled into my chair, taking comfort in the familiar details of the room—the thick carpet, metal music stand, and soft, warm lighting. The practice rooms had originally featured terrible fluorescent tube lights that distracted me so thoroughly that I could barely practice at all, so I’d donated new fixtures and softer bulbs.
The detectives asked me a series of questions like, “How do you know Mr. Mariano?” and “Where were you before you found the body?” I told them what I knew: the murder happened afew minutes before 1:30, I didn’t see anyone suspicious, and I had no idea who would want to kill Paolo. My answers must have satisfied them because a few minutes later, I was walking back out while they ushered Fred into the practice room-turned interrogation room.
Cecilia sat on the other side of the rehearsal room, her thumbs rapidly typing a message on her phone. Was she spreading the news of Paolo’s death? She didn’t look very sad, though her face was pale. Walter paced back and forth across the floor near the practice rooms and James played on an old gaming device that must have been at least twenty years old. I walked over to him, desperate for some small talk to keep me from thinking about the murder.
I pulled a tin of apple slices sprinkled with my favorite seasoning—a chile-lime-salt blend. I took a bite but found that I had no appetite, so I put it back in my bag and turned to James. “That’s a cool gaming device.”
He looked up at me. “Thanks. I’m not into new technology, but I like some of these classic games.”
“Sounds like my mamá. She’s not a big fan of progress or change. What game is it?”
James replied, but his words came out garbled. Sometimes his damaged voice made him difficult to understand. The muscles around his eyes tightened for a fraction of a second, then he cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s Tetris.” He tilted it toward me, showing me the screen. “Research shows it can help reduce flashbacks after seeing something traumatic. Seeing Paolo like that...”
“That’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll try playing a game like that later tonight.”
I picked up a program from a large stack and it hummed a few measures ofHave Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. Myheart sank. We probably wouldn’t be needing those enchanted programs anymore.
James gestured to the stack. “I guess you’re going to have to find someone else to sing with.”
“I doubt we’ll go on with the concert now,” I said. Canceling the concert was nothing compared to a death, so it felt wrong for me to feel sorry for myself, though disappointment sat heavy in my stomach.
James frowned. “We can’t just cancel it. The pops concert is a special tradition for many people in Austen Heights. It wouldn’t feel like Christmas without it.”
I nodded. It was one of my favorite parts of Christmas, too.
“It isn’t canceled,” Walter said, joining us. “Fred and I already talked about it.”
“How did the two of you already have time to discuss the concert?” I asked.
“The show must go on.” Walter smiled smugly. “I know how to get things done.”
Cecelia, never one to miss out, put her phone away and strode over to us. “Who are they giving Paolo’s part to? Or will they just cancel Anne’s duet?” She looked a little too hopeful at her last suggestion.
A bitter smile crossed James’s face. “Whoever it is, it won’t be me.” He turned his attention back to his game.
A knock sounded at the back door and Cecelia cracked it open, revealing the faces of a few members of the orchestra.
“Sorry, but there’s been an emergency. Fred will send out more information soon,” she said, pulling the door shut in their faces. She turned to Walter. “You know how to get things done, do you? Maybe while you were rescheduling the concert you could have texted the other members of the orchestra and told them not to come in for the sound check.”
Someone pulled on the door from the other side, but gave up when it didn’t budge. Cecelia let out a noise of disgust. “You’d think the cops would have set up a perimeter by now.”
But I barely heard her as a chill rose up my spine. The doors to the rehearsal hall were locked; nobody could get in without a key. Which meant that the only people who could have killed Paolo were standing right here with me. It had to be Cecelia, Walter, or James.
The door to the practice room swung open and the detectives led Fred out. He wasn’t cuffed, but Detective Littlefield rested a hand on his elbow.
Or Fred. I swallowed back rising nausea. Iknewthese people, none of them were killers. But I always left right after rehearsal rather than risk the deluge of input while everyone put away their instruments and chatted. How well did I really know them?
