I lean back with a sigh, my fingers tangled in slightly matted fur.
The house is mostly the same, aside from looking more organized than I remember. While I keep the space sanitized, the size is equivalent to a dorm room, so clutter is inevitable. But somehow it’s tidier, like a mysterious housecleaner zipped through in my absence, picking up stray jackets off the floor, fluffing pillows, disposing of a few empty beer cans, and even folding two of Stella’s old quilts into neat stacks on the adjacent loveseat.
Definitely not Rock.
Blowing out a breath, I glance at the four guitars lined up against the far wall, unfinished yet so close to completion I can almost taste it. The bodies are sanded smooth, the curves just right, but I still need to fine-tune the neck profiles, wire the electronics, and perfect the finish.
There’s also the branding, logo, website, and the way I’ll convince people that these aren’t just guitars; they’re something special. Something worth owning.
I may have a busted leg and legal hassles on the horizon, but my mind is sharp, my dreams are big, and my hands work just fine. It’s fucking time.
Standing from the couch to let Toaster out for a potty break, I decide that my plan will be to sleep for the next twelve hours, then catch up on bills before I lose water and power.
Toaster follows me to the sliding door off the kitchen and disappears outside, swallowed by snow and winter air. I take a few minutes to eye my guitars, new ideas and technological advances brimming to life, before letting my dog in and retreating back to the living room.
I stall, staring down at the worn couch cushions.
More memories wash over me—a bleary picture of dark hair and crystalline eyes, the sensation of chilled fingers hooking around my hand, and songs I recognize but can’t place. Pretty sure I passed out on this couch. Nearly died. But the blood has faded into the upholstery, almost like someone tried to scrub away the stains.
Huh.
Just as I go to sit down, my attention snags on my missing wallet resting on the coffee table, a little napkin beside it. Inching closer, I gaze at the black ink, squinting, trying to process the smeared words and unfamiliar handwriting.
A warm tickle travels through me and shocks my heart.
Every word is a defibrillator paddle, zapping electricity to my chest and giving me new life. Tiny waves of second chances.
Picking up the note, I read it again, again, again.
I read it every hour, on the hour, over the course of the next two days.
I read it until I start to believe it.
All the best songs have bridges
The strongest ones don’t burn
Chapter 5Annalise
“Everybody, stay calm!” Famous last words, of course. In fact, I’m apt to believe that phrase was intended to trigger the exact opposite reaction in people. “I’ve got it taken care of!”
I say this, knowing I certainly do not have it taken care of.
A spray of blood lands on my teased hair and patterned bow.
A woman ducks underneath a dining table, taking her plate of pancakes and homemade maple syrup with her.
Two little girls bounce in the cherry-red booth, one giggling and pointing, the other banshee-screaming into her chocolate milk with her hands over her eyes.
The goldfinch arches overhead, swerving left and right, another trickling of blood from her injured wing dappling the black-and-white checkered floor. Kenna hides in the corner, covertly recording the chaos for social media clout. She sends me a toothy grin and a thumbs-up as I lift my pleated skirt and hightail it over to where the bird has landed on an older gentleman’s table while he casually sips his coffee and reads the newspaper.
“So sorry,” I say, out of breath, inching toward the bird. “Can I just…?”
He nods, perusing the sports column. “Mind if I get a refill, darling?”
Blinking, I attempt to hold the smile as my attention shifts between the man and the bird. “Absolutely. It’s on the house.”
“You’re a gem.”
