Stepping into the bright spotlight, I take in the silhouettes of the people in the now dimly-lit crowd, my heart fluttering withrelief when my gaze lands on the piano at last. I let my feet carry me there, the audience growing silent as my hands hover above the keys.
Then, I begin.
Rachmaninoff’s sad melody reaches every corner of the room. It ebbs and flows as gracefully as I can muster right now, starting soft, faint, then growing into a monsoon of devastating notes.
Ironically, I’m performing a Russian composer’s piece for a crowd of Italian criminals. But music is music, and no matter how much disdain they all carry for the enemy, they can at least appreciate art.
My chest leans into the motions, my whole body wired to the tune I’ve been rehearsing endlessly. Out here, I set it free into the world, wanting to isolate myself from it but somehow achieving the opposite. The harder I press the keys, the more it clings to my heart.
My feet press on the pedals at just the right time, and when the melody slows again, my body sways gently, head tilted back. The moment the backs of my eyes burn with incoming tears, I swallow them, ignoring the emotion trying to take over until, minutes later, the final chord rings out, and I’m met with a chorus of applause.
I look up for just a second, basking in the praise. But that’s when I see it.
My stalker.
He’s here.
I never made him up.
2
Cecilia
Iwas swimming in the ocean years ago when a wave knocked me over, and I accidentally stepped on a sea urchin. The pain was so sharp, I screamed, but the sound came out muffled under the water. And because I knew no one could hear me, I thought I was going to drown.
That’s how I feel now.
Breathless.
Trapped.
If I were standing, I know I’d shrink back, my knees buckling.
My stalker is every bit present in the room with me, standing with his back to a narrow hallway in my peripheral. I know it’s him because of those tattoos, those dark roots coiling around his neck and forearms—I’ve seen them before in flashes, on the streets of San Maleno. From when he was following me.
How? How does he always manage to corner me with such ease? And how come he ever only makes himself known to me?
If Cesare has noticed anything wrong, he doesn’t show it—I can’t see him at all from the piano. The crowd murmurs, and I think the director is whispering my name from somewhere beyond the curtain stage left, his voice swallowed by the room.
But I can’t look away from the silhouette of the strange man watching me, nor can I force my hands to move back to the keyboard and play.
My stalker’s eyes, bright green like malachite, seem to gleam under the dim lights that barely illuminate his face. They look otherworldly, from a place that’s void of anything good. The vertical scar that traverses the left side of his face only adds to that.
A cool shiver dances across my shoulders, the air humming with danger. I swallow hard instead of screaming, instead of jolting from this chair and running as far as my legs can take me.
But it’s the gesture he makes that draws out my hesitation. It’s the inked finger that taps his full lips, commanding my silence.
My breathing catches.
Be good, he seems to say, as if he knows I’ll listen. As if he wants this—us—to be our shared secret in a room full of people.
Heart pounding in my ears, I glance to the left at the director, anxiety written all over his battered face. He waves his arms around like a windmill, trying to get my attention. We’re only one melody in, and the recital is supposed to go for a full hour. The thought of sitting up here in the spotlight, alone and vulnerable, almost makes me shake my head to tell him I can’t go on. I can barely move an inch of my body, let alone get up.
Much to my stalker’s delight, I refrain from making any sudden gestures. Better to play and pretend the monster on my trail isn’t real.
Eventually, I nod, confirming I’ll perform the next piece, but not before I peer out into the crowd again to see the stalker’slips curve upward. He knows I won’t scream, and judging by the way he moves to lean against the wall next to him—slowly, intentionally, with the confidence of a man who knows more about the world than the world knows about him—I can tell he’s here to stay.
Heat crawls over my skin, terrifyingly welcome. I don’t want him here, but there’s something about being watched so intensely that makes me want to perform. And his gaze…itdrownsme, the color fascinating, hungry for things I can’t begin to explain.
