She’s like Dad. If I told her that, she’d consider it a compliment, when in reality, it’s the worst condemnation I can deliver. Even now,several years after his death, I can’t shake the sound of his voice or the piercing insistence of his eyes.You’re not trying hard enough, Raoul. You’re shaming the family, Raoul. You need to change. I’m doing this because I care about you, about your future in this family. This is for your own good—
My heart rate is skyrocketing. No, no, no—I can’t have a panic attack right here at the bar. I grip my knees as tightly as I can, feeling the material of my slacks, the bones beneath. I focus on the clink of glass, the gurgle of liquid being poured. The faint jazz being played over the speakers. And I haul in deep breaths, picturing my heart, imagining its pace slowing to a steady, normal pulse.
This time, it works.
Swallowing the rest of my drink, I shove together the papers on the table and straighten the stack. Maybe we should have done online applications, but I have this weird obsession with doing things old-school, on paper, whenever I can. Now I’ve got to cram this mess into my laptop bag and tote it all home. Then I’d better go for a run to release the anxiety that’s currently buzzing in my veins and knotting my muscles. If I don’t purge the tension, I’ll go to a very bad place.
Besides, a run is a good excuse not to go home just yet.
When I leave the New Orpheum, it’s dark, and a chilly fall breeze whisks crunchy leaves across the sidewalk. The New Orpheum is a massive building with what seems like acres upon acres of parking around it. In the gloomy distance, I spot other buildings, like monumental gravestones, relics of an era when mills and factories kept this city alive instead of microphones and guitars. Those buildings haven’t yet been renovated.
I wonder if Firmin Richards and Gil Leveque plan to expand their empire throughout this neighborhood once they’ve finishedoutfitting the New Orpheum. That could be why Gil is so keen to turn a profit with my musical. I wonder if he knows the statistics about new musicals, how few of them break even, much less earn extra money.
I try not to think about the numbers too much. For me, it’s all about the music. The songs in my head demand to be heard, theyscreamto be heard, and if I don’t bring them into the world, the muse will find someone else. That’s how it feels anyway. Like I’m one failure away from never being able to write another song.
When the anxiety spikes in my stomach, I quicken my pace and yank open the rear door of my car. I keep a gym bag there for random runs, and changing in the back seat, under cover of the tinted windows, is normal for me. Slinging my laptop bag onto the floor behind the passenger seat, I strip off my work clothes and shimmy into running shorts and a moisture-wicking T-shirt. My feet welcome the comfort of sneakers instead of the leather shoes I wore all day.
Within minutes, I fling the car door open again, emerging as someone entirely different from the Raoul of the audition table. My key fob, phone, and earbuds accompany me. Everything else stays locked in the car.
I don’t head for the well-lit street. Instead, I jog across the parking lot toward the abandoned buildings in the distance.
To most people, it would seem foolish, I suppose. I could twist my ankle on a bit of rubble, trip and fall onto a chunk of debris or some broken glass. But I’m sure-footed, and my whole body wants torun, run, runto escape the anxiety gnawing on the inside of my skin. I jam my earbuds into my ears, flood my brain with music, and plunge into the dark.
Once I cross the huge parking lot, the nearest building rears up like a specter, like a warning. I turn and jog along its front, peering up at the partly boarded windows. Several of them are broken, andloops of white spray paint decorate some of the bricks. The graffiti is so worn, I can’t read it.
The front of the building has a couple of recessed areas where the shadows thicken, and as I pass one of them, my eye catches a sudden movement. A tall figure wearing a long, billowy coat.
At the same moment, the wind carries a scent to me—dark and damp, like the rich green moss clinging to the hollows of an ancient forest.
My heart takes a flying leap into my throat, and at the same time, instinct kicks in, adrenaline zinging along my bones. I don’t change direction or quicken my pace. At a steady jog, I aim for the corner of the building.
When I risk a glance over my shoulder, I don’t see anyone.
I’m imagining things. There’s no one out here. I probably saw a tarp blowing in the breeze. I’ll jog a little farther and then head back to my car.
My feet strike the pavement in time with the beat of the song flowing through my earbuds. Motion is relief. Motion is music. I was wrong to be worried, because I’m alone, utterly alone. Running alone is the purest freedom and— Wait, something is wrong. There’s an off-kilter beat, a tempo that is neither the music nor my footsteps.
I pluck out one earbud, and there it is—a scuffing, repetitive beat behind me. Heavy footsteps that are not mine.
With my heart hammering violently, I whirl around.
The figure stops. He doesn’t try to hide that he was chasing me.
He’s big, wearing a black coat with the hood thrown back. A white mask conceals most of his face except for a full mouth and a square jaw that could belong to a 1950s movie star or some caped superhero.
“What do you want?” My voice sounds weak. Clearing mythroat, I try again, deeper. “What do you want?” No,fuck, that soundedsofake. That was so much worse.
The black-clad figure emits a low, menacing chuckle. He advances, and I swallow hard, because while I’m almost as tall as him, he’s much wider in the shoulders.
I retreat slowly, tucking both my earbuds into the pocket of my shorts. I should run for it. But something about the guy’s stance makes me think he’s waiting for me to do just that. I get the feeling he’d love to chase me down.
The man in the black coat angles to the right, and I shift slightly to the left as I continue my retreat. Too late, I realize he’s cornering me against the wall. My back hits the bricks, and I freeze.
The masked man surges forward and slams both palms against the wall on either side of my head, effectively caging me. Threat pours off him in waves so heavy, I can almost taste it. His scent is overpowering—ancient forests, damp leaves, and the dry darkness of bones sunk in soil.
“I don’t have any money on me,” I manage. “But my wallet is in my car. I can get it for you.”
His voice is rich, smooth, and dark, like black coffee. “I don’t need your money.”
