"I live in the shadows, Viktor," I said, my voice dropping a soothing octave. "I don't mind them."
He grunted, finally stepping aside. "Play something cheerful tonight. No funeral marches."
"I'll see what I can do."I'll see.Ha! Blind joke. I wondered if he caught it. Probably not. Subtlety wasn't Viktor's strong suit.
Once I heard his footsteps moving away, I navigated the step up to the platform, found the bench with my knee, and sat. Taking a moment to center myself, I adjusted the bench distance. My hands found the keys, the familiar cool ivory grounding me.
I was shaking. Just a little.
He was fishing. He surely knew I'd walked through the blood. He wanted to know if I'd understood what it was.
I launched into a Chopin Nocturne, letting the melody ripple out across the dining room. The customer conversations dipped, then resumed, creating a rhythmic undertone to my playing.
I let the music take me somewhere else. To a place where I felt powerful. Here, I controlled the tempo. I controlled the emotion. I could make these murderers and thieves feel sadness, joy, or nostalgia with nothing more but the shift of a chord.
My fingers flew, muscle memory taking over. And as I fell into the music, the darkness behind my eyelids filled with the colors of the notes—deep blues and purples and golds. The colors of the night.
But about an hour into the set, the feeling returned.
The restaurant was full now. Clinking silverware, laughter, and the hiss of the espresso machine nearly overpowering the sound of the piano. But beneath the noise, a singular sensation pricked the back of my neck.
It wasn't Viktor. I could hear Viktor arguing in Russian near the kitchen doors.
This was something else. Something much more focused than the usual stares.
Someone was watching me. Not watching the performance. Watchingme. Chills raced up and down my arms. It wasn't fear exactly. It was something else. Something that felt like recognition, though that made no sense.
I transitioned into a darker piece, Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C-sharp minor. The heavy, ominous chords crashed through the room as I tried to ignore the prickle of my skin.
Either someone was completely entranced by my playing, or someone was watching me. I was certain of it. But just to be sure, during a pause in the song, I turned my head slightly to the right, feigning a stretch, my ear straining to filter the sounds in the room.
There. Right there.
Breathing.
Someone was standing near the service alcove, just to the right of the stage. Too still to be a waiter. Too quiet to be a guest.
And the presence felt…familiar, somehow.
My fingers didn't falter, but my mind began to race. Was it the killer?
Or was it something worse?
I pressed harder on the keys, the music swelling violently. Let them watch. Let them think I was just a blind girl playing pretty songs in a cage.
I knew the shape of the cage now.
Time to start rattling the bars.
CHAPTER 4
MILO
"She's a liability, Milo. Loose ends require cutting."
Viktor leaned back against the stainless steel prep table, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips despite the 'No Smoking' sign directly above his head. Ash flaked onto the floor as he talked. The kitchen of The Silver Table was closed, the cooks gone, the air thick with the smell of stale garlic and industrial degreaser.
I kept my hands in my pockets, leaning against the doorframe. Relaxed. Easy. Just a guy having a chat. "She didn't see a thing, Viktor. Literally."
