“Will your mom let you?”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m twenty-two.”
“Yes, and? Your mom hates it when you go out with me.”
“True.” She winces. “But that’s mostly because you tend to disappear in pursuit of one-night stands, and then I have to find my own way home.”
“Fair enough. I’m a terrible friend.”
“Hey, women have needs, and I’m cool with you getting yours taken care of. I know the deal when we go out. Though I do worry about you sometimes, not gonna lie—so many weirdos out there, and when was the last time you got checked out for STDs, babe? No shame, I just want you healthy as well as satisfied.” She reaches for the backpocket of her skinny jeans, but of course her phone isn’t there. She loses it constantly. “Oh shit…I just remembered. I might have a shift at the Leroux tonight. When I find my phone, I’ll check the schedule and text you, okay? Oh, and I just heard about an open audition for a brand-new musical. It’s not till next month, but they’re looking for dancers and chorus members. You should come with me. You could—”
“Maybe.” I feel bad for cutting her off, but the spicy, prickling sensation behind my eyes tells me I’m close to bursting into tears. I need to end this conversationnow. I can’t let Meg know how broken I am over everything.
Despite knowing the court case was probably a lost cause, I’d hoped that a judge might take pity on me and rule in my favor. But the Progeny’s lawyers were too good. Their numbers were decimated in the battle that cost my parents’ lives, but they are intent on rebuilding, and my parents’ assets are part of that effort.
Meg doesn’t take offense at my abruptness. She watches me for a moment, and her bright gaze softens. “All right, well…let me know if you want to come to the audition. I’ll text you the details just in case.” She kisses the top of my head and saunters off.
I shouldn’t leave the desk for another half hour. That’s when my shift ends. But it’s either flee the desk now or melt into a puddle of snot and tears right here in the glorious lobby of the New Orpheum, beneath the arched ceiling, in the glow of the brand-new chandelier. It’s late afternoon, the lull right before the Leroux bar and restaurant opens, and it’s rare to see anyone in the lobby at this time of day. I can risk stepping away a little early.
After setting out the sign that promises my return in fifteen minutes (not likely), I escape through the door behind the desk, cut through the back office, and slip into the gloomy hallway beyond.
This titanic building used to be a mill. In fact, it went throughseveral transformations into various types of mills and factories before Mr. Richards got his hands on it and decided to pour his dead wife’s fortune into the place.
The Richardses were friends of my parents—not part of their cult, thankfully. After my parents passed, Mr. Richards offered me a job. I was hesitant, because his stare has unsettled me since I was about eleven, but I was also desperate. The situation here at the New Orpheum seemed perfectly suited to my needs, and I couldn’t pass it up.
Sometimes I work the front desk, sometimes I serve tables at the Leroux, and sometimes I help out with backstage tasks when there’s a production. Basically, I do whatever I’m told, and in return, I get a free place to stay, free dance classes whenever I can fit them into my schedule, and a tiny paycheck that covers food and clothing expenses if I’m really, really careful.
God, I miss having money.
As I move deeper into the New Orpheum, the gilded, classical-style decor of the front-facing spaces gives way to dingy brick, cracked plaster, and stained concrete. The back half of the huge building hasn’t been renovated yet. Bulbs flicker in cobwebbed sockets, and the thin carpet cloaking the hall smells faintly of moisture and mouse droppings. Beyond the residence hallways, the rest of the building is closed off…or at least there are signs and caution tape to that effect. I don’t pay attention to the tape or the signs. Despite the occasional cockroach or mouse, I actually prefer the back rooms or the empty levels above the fourth floor. I’ve heard there are lower levels, too, but I’ve never figured out how to get down there. Once, I discovered a door that might have led to the basement, but it was double padlocked.
My favorite place in the whole complex is an abandoned concrete stairway in the unrenovated part of the New Orpheum. The acoustics there are phenomenal, and my voice seems to carry formiles. I tested it once, with Meg’s help, to see if my voice would reach the public areas of the building. It didn’t, so I feel comfortable singing there. It’s the only place I can really let go.
I left my post five minutes ago. By now, I should have had a quick cry in the lobby bathroom and returned to the desk, but a few sniffles won’t relieve the cataclysm in my chest or the agony clawing at my insides, shredding my soul into reckless ribbons. Mr. Richards pays me little enough. He can deal with me taking off earlyone time.
I push a creaking door halfway open and squeeze through the aperture into an even more decrepit hallway. Electricity is spotty here, limited to the few bulbs that still tremor to life when I flip a switch. I love the gloom and the shadows that cling to the walls, encroaching upon each globe of light. I head deeper into the dark, soothed by the absence of the poisonous sun.
A few of the rooms back here are wallpapered—faded patterns featuring glorious sprays of leaves or birds of paradise. I pause in one doorway, distracted by the flash of my own reflection in a gilt-edged mirror. That mirror should be thick with dust, but there’s a band of smooth glass through the grime, as if someone swept a hand across it to clear the filth. My reflection is ghostlike—dark hair pulled back halfway, white blouse, black eyes. “Nightmare eyes,” my father used to call them, because my pupils are so black they’re indistinguishable from my irises. He dubbed me his “little nightmare.” I liked that better than the other title my parents gave me:Our Chosen.
The knot in my throat swells suddenly, an unbearable ache, and I run forward blindly through door after door until I burst onto the landing of the abandoned stairway and catch the metal railing to keep myself from pitching forward into the dark.
Somewhere below is the locked door that leads to the basement.Somewhere far above is the exit to the roof of the building, a place I’ve only visited a few times in the months since I arrived.
The stairwell door clicks shut behind me. My gasping sobs echo, each one carried above and below, elongated by the resonance of concrete and metal.
But I don’t really want to cry. I need deeper relief.
Inhaling through my nose, I blow out a steadying breath. Then, by the dim glow of the emergency lighting, I slowly mount the stairs to the second floor as I let the first notes slip from my throat.
It’s an old song from the ’70s, one my mother loved. “Dream Weaver,” by Gary Wright. I give it a different cadence, a modern sound. My voice glides through the notes, mysterious and languid, ghostly and smooth. In my mind, I hear the delicate accompaniment of a piano, a complement to the first few wistful bars, and then the crash of drums and the crest of passionate strings as I let myself go. I pour everything I have into the lyrics, sucking in quick, desperate breaths between phrases, flooding the empty air with the brilliant violence of the song. It’s a disconsolate wish, a dream of heaven from an angel in hell. I feel the tension rushing out of my body, the purging force of music easing the ache in my heart.
As the song climbs, so do I. I reach the second-floor landing and pause, listening to the notes soar into the darkness.
Few people have heard me sing, and I’ve never had lessons. But I’ve lived in Nashville all my life, moving in musical circles with my parents, and I know, objectively, that my voice is good. In mere seconds, I can go from the smoky, sultry tones of a lounge singer to the pure, delicate notes of a light-lyric soprano.
Every note feels incredibly intimate, like my soul is a dandelion that I’m plucking seed by seed, blowing the fragile fluff from my palm into the cruel maw of the universe. Being perceived so fully ismore than I can stand, and yet I don’t know how to sing any other way. That’s why I can only sing when I’m alone.
I haven’t auditioned for anything, not even as a backup dancer, since my parents were killed. Since theyvolunteeredto fight for Wolfsheim. Since they surrendered themselves to the will of a monster.
