The anger came next. It always did, chasing the fear away like a wolf chasing a rabbit.
I was angry at the alley. Angry at the blood. Angry at the panic that made me feel small and broken again.
Ever since the accident, everyone treated me like I was made of spun glass. Poor Raven. So tragic. She had such a bright future. They spoke in hushed tones when I entered a room, as if blindness was contagious, or as if I couldn't hear the pity in their voices.
But I could. I could hear everything.
I hated the gentleness. The hands of strangers hovering at my elbows to guide me over curbs I'd already mapped. The soft voices explaining things I already understood. They stripped me of my edges, sanding me down until I was smooth and harmless.
But I wasn't harmless.
And I wasn't helpless.
I sat there in the dark apartment—what was the point of turning on the lights?—seething. Someone had bled in that alley. Someone had likely died. And I'd walked right through it, completely oblivious, tapping my little white cane like a good little disabled girl.
If I could see...
I cut the thought off.Ifchanged nothing.Ifwas a poisonous thought that did nothing to help me.
I was blind. My father was dead. The restaurant he'd put his life into was owned by Russian mobsters who used it to launder money and god knew what else while I played piano for their clueless customers.Thatwas the reality of my new life, and I'd grown used to it.
But tonight, the reality felt different. Dangerous. Because I'd stumbled upon something I shouldn't have.
And I didn't…hate it.
I touched the scar on my hairline, hidden by my bangs. I'd lived so carefully since the accident. So safe. I missed the danger. I missed the adrenaline of driving too fast, drinking too much, dancing with the wrong guys who were still sexy as hell, of takingrisks. Now, my biggest risk was crossing the street or navigating a crowded room.
Why didn't they stop me? If there was a body, if there was a crime scene... why let the blind pianist walk right through the evidence?
Unless they thought I didn't matter. Unless they thought I wouldn't notice.
My fingers tightened on the cane handle until my knuckles ached. People always underestimated me. They thought darkness made me stupid.
They were wrong.
CHAPTER 3
RAVEN
The next evening, The Silver Table smelled of roasted garlic, expensive cognac, and hypocrisy.
I entered through the front door this time, my cane tapping a sharp staccato on the polished marble. The air conditioning was humming its low D-flat drone, and underneath it, the murmur of the dinner rush was just beginning to swell.
"Raven! My god, you're here."
It was Geoffrey, the floor manager. His voice was pitched an octave too high, laced with that frantic, patronizing worry I loathed. He smelled of peppermint breath mints and nervous sweat, and he always seemed surprised to see me even though I'd been playing piano at this restaurant since my father owned it.
"I'm on the schedule, Geoffrey," I said, keeping my face neutral. "Why wouldn't I be here?"
"Well, just... with the rush... I mean, it's going to be packed tonight. A lot of VIPs. Are you sure you're up for it? I can put on the playlist."
I stopped, turning my head slightly to where his voice originated, about five feet eight inches off the ground. "I've been playing this room since before I can remember. And for the past year without being able to see the piano. Do you think I forgot where the keys are since yesterday? Or that I'll suddenly forget how to play because there's a bunch of people here I can't see anyway?"
"No, no! Of course not," he stammered. "I just... I don't want you to get overwhelmed."
Overwhelmed. The code word for in the way.
"I'm fine," I said, stepping around him. I didn't need to count the steps to the piano. My body knew the distance. Nineteen paces past the host stand, slight left, twelve paces to the raised platform.
