“She is,” Houston says. “And that’s all it has to be.”
Talia leans in. “R. Navarro,” she repeats, rolling the R. “Let me see the handwriting.”
He hands her the tape. She squints, then smiles the way someone smiles at a memory that isn’t sad anymore. “That might be Rosa Navarro’s demo.”
“Rosa?”
“Sweet, shy thing,” Talia explains. “Big eyes, tiny hands, twice the courage she thought she had. Came in with a borrowed guitar and shook when she plugged it in. Then she sang, and the room lit up like a theater. We only had her for a couple of sessions. She had places to be, or someone told her she did.”
“Do you remember the year?” Knox asks.
Talia taps her nail on the plastic. “I remember what I wore. I remember who fixed the door that week. I remember she asked for hot tea with honey and apologized to the kettle for using it. But not the year.” She points at a faded show flyer on the wall. “Memory is a liar. It lies more when you get older.”
“Did she say where she was staying?” Houston asks.
“Not a peep. She was quiet.”
“It would be cool if I were related to her.” I shrug. “But I don’t believe in coincidences. Not for me.”
Talia frowns, not scolding, more like she found a splinter in something she was wrapping for me. “Everywhere I’ve ever gone, there’ve been coincidences. Bus stops. Green rooms. Choir lofts. Casinos. I’ve seen the same song twice in two cities with two different writers who happened upon the same verse or melody. I’ve heard the same laugh from a different face. World’s bigger than our math, honey. Coincidences make life fun.”
“Maybe for other people,” I say, and try to make my voice light. “My luck is practical. I get cavities and parking tickets. I get real deadlines and small wins. I don’t get mystery relatives and mythic tapes.”
Houston nudges the tape with his knuckle, thoughtful. “Cynicism just means you know you’re onto something.”
I smile at him because he’s just so pure sometimes. “You are your mother’s hopeful son.”
“Guilty.”
Talia pats his cheek. “Hope is a tool. Not a pillow to smother yourself with. Doesn’t hurt to keep a little bit of it around for the bad times.”
I look at the cassette again.R. Navarro. No date. No instrument list. I picture a woman with a thrifted dress and a voice too big for the room. I’ve done this before, let the fantasy of family run away with me. I stop the picture before it gets legs.
Salem elbows me soft. “You want to Google Rosa? See if there’s a face that looks familiar?”
I hadn’t even thought of doing that. Avoidance has been my strategy since I was old enough to understand that looking hurts worse than not looking. I pull my phone halfway out of my pocket and then slide it back in. “There has to be a million Rosa Navarros. What are the odds?”
“Good if you want them to be,” Talia says. “Bad if you don’t.”
“Neutral if I’m working.”
Salem leans over the console and squints at my locket like he’s going to read the engraving by willpower. “Let me at least try a search string,” he says, teasing. “Rosa Navarro voice smoky brave.”
“That’s not how Google works,” I say, laughing despite myself.
“Everything works like that if you want it enough.”
Knox opens the rack drawer and sets out a clean notebook, a pencil, and a roll of tape like a mise en place. “We’re losing the morning,” he says without heat. “We can play detective at lunch.”
“He’s right, guys,” I tell them. “Let’s get to work.”
Everyone mulls to their corner, and I think about coincidences. Useful until they turn bossy. There were times I looked for my face in other faces and came away with only a headache. I think about a girl named Rosa with a borrowed guitar.
“Lunch will be chili,” Talia says, final. “I brought plenty.”
Knox claps his hands once, quiet. It carries anyway. “All right, crew,” he says. “Break’s over. We’ve got takes to cut and glass to test. We can chase ghosts at lunch. For now, work.”
Sounds like exactly what I need to stop spinning out about a random tape that means nothing. “Work.” I nod, pull out my laptop, and do exactly that.
