“Y—you… who’s that?” he said, almost speechless. “You don’t know a Stradivarius when you see one?”
“What part ofcrack housedid you not understand earlier?”
Mosavi closed his eyes and drew in another calming breath. “My apologies,” he said through his teeth. “Perhaps I’ll entertain you one day with the history of everything in here.”
“That sounds—like so much fun,” I said, faking a smile as something familiar caught my eye. “Oh my God.”
“What’s wrong?”
I pointed to the wooden guitar in the center of the wall. “Where did you get that?”
“Ah, that was something I won at an auction in London. This is the only one of its kind, and it was played by a master.” He reached for the guitar and gently lifted it from the supporting arms before flipping it to the other side. He pointed to a tiny signature along the neck. “Sebastian Shields was one of the most talented classical guitarists in history, and he was a werewolf.”
Could I have been mistaken? Darryl said his father wasn’t a werewolf.
“How old is it?”
“Over a hundred years for sure. I was lucky to see him perform before he vanished. No one knew what happened to him, but he did have a human son that had some talent himself. Never became as famous as his father, but he did play this guitar. I thought this was lost to history until I heard it would be up for bid. I got on a jet that night.”
“I think this guitar belongs to Sebastian’s grandson.”
Mosavi’s eyes narrowed to suspicion, but he didn’t respond.
“It belongs to Darryl.”
The elder laughed. “What? You can’t be serious. That failure—” He recomposed himself before standing more upright. “Have you proof?”
“I—” I sighed, shaking my head. “I don’t have physical proof, but I know it’s his. Roscoe stole it and pawned it for drugs. It destroyed their friendship.”
“If I recall from his records, Darryl’s last name was Finn, not Shields.”
I smirked at that. There was no way Darryl’s real last name would have been that coincidental.
“Why are you smiling?”
“I doubt that’s his real last name.”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t know.”
“I don’t, but if you heard him play the guitar, I think you’d know. He’s really good.”
Mosavi placed the guitar back on its shelf. “A lot of people arereally good,but no one has ever been Sebastian good. That werewolf had talent that went beyond simply playing an instrument. He transcended reality when he performed. I still get chills remembering that last performance.”
“How much would it cost to buy it?” I asked, knowing it was out of my hands. There was no way any of us would be able to afford it—at least not now.
“Nothing. There is no amount of money that would be enough.”
“Listen, I’ll do anything to get that guitar. What do you want?”
“Why are you so persistent?Youdidn’t even know who Stradiveri was.”
“Because it was Darryl’s father’s guitar. It was the only physical thing he had left to remember him by. His father taught him to play on that instrument.” I thought back to the tears in Darryl’s eyes on the beach the night he’d reminisced. “You’re right. There is no amount of money that would ever be enough to replace priceless memories.”
Mosavi closed his eyes, seemingly giving my words consideration, but with him, there was no telling how this would end up. Unless it involved Willa, the mayor had little empathy when it came to others.
“I can’t believe that piece of shit lazing around my town sold a priceless heirloom to get high!” Mosavi let out a soft growl before opening his eyes again. “As if I didn’t despise him enough already… If what you are saying is true—”
“He didn’t know what it was worth, and he was in a really bad place.”
