But first we need a brilliant segue to ease into the subject of what Sofia told us. The last thing we want is for her to clam up—
“I didn’t know you worked at the counseling center at the college,” Felix says.
“Hmmm? Oh yes. The Electra Company. I’ve mostly passed the torch at this point, but it’s a wonderful project.”
I pull a chair closer to Malia’s stool. It’s easier to have a serious conversation at this distance, though there are obvious risks to my eardrums if she decides to sing one of her answers. “What do you do there?”
“We teach them to vocalize. Pain, rage, shame—you name it. The last thing you want is to trap those feelings inside.” She presses a fist to her breastbone, and then her throat, and finally her lips. “Do you remember the last time you let yourself scream with your full voice? Not holding back or muzzling yourself for public consumption.”
“No,” I admit. “Probably when I was a baby. Or maybe a toddler.”
“You should practice.” Her stare swings to Felix. “Both of you. Especially if there are emotions you’re struggling to express.”
Like mortification, maybe? Two questions in and we’ve already lost control of this interview.
“I’m sure Virginia won’t mind screaming at me,” Felix jokes.
Malia laughs, plucking a quartet of notes that sounds like the harp equivalent of a rimshot. “You can practice in the pool,” she tells us. “It’s easier to let go underwater.”
Assuming you don’t drown. I decide to take a page out of Felix’s book and wade right into the main subject of this inquiry.
“Did you know that one of the women you worked with at the center had an experience with Bradley?” I pause, waiting for her to give some sign of recognition. “The guy who died.”
Malia blinks at me, expressionless.
“I know who you mean,” she says at last. Turning to her harp, she plays a stormy riff, resting her forehead against the frame when she finishes.
“Did you know who he was?” Felix’s voice is barely above a whisper. “When he showed up here.”
“Did I know he was a reprobate?” Malia muses. “Or did I merely sense his toxic aura? Thatisa conundrum.” She flicks a string before shifting to face us. “Why?”
Felix nods like he’s glad she asked. And then he keeps nodding, clearly at a loss for words.
“We’re investigating,” I admit. “The murder.”
“And you think I might have done it.” She inhales with her whole torso, tipping her head back. That’s all the warning weget before she launches into a long, maniacal laugh, skidding up and down the register before hitting a note so high I clap my hands over my ears.
When it stops, I cautiously lower my arms.
“Glorious! I haven’t done that in a while.” Malia smooths a hand over her neck. “Remind me to warm up properly next time.” She glances between us, seeming surprised by our reaction. “Pity the two of you never saw my Phantom. I worked on that laugh for days. Chilling, wasn’t it?”
“You could say that,” Felix replies diplomatically.
Malia looks sheepish. “I couldn’t resist. You gave me such a beautiful cue, and that’s always been a favorite role. Right up there with my Clytemnestra, back in the day. I make a wonderful murderess.”
“You mean musically,” I prompt, because this feels like an important distinction.
“The line between art and life is more of a construct. We can choose to accept it or not.”
I side-eye Felix, needing a second opinion on whether she is or is not messing with us.
“Is there anything you’d like to tell us about that day?” he asks Malia, in a perfectly pleasant, shooting-the-breeze tone.
“Why?” She draws in on herself, tugging the edges of her long vest together. “Did you see something?”
“Maybe,” I hedge. “Depends on what you mean by ‘something.’”
“Fine.” Malia slumps forward, burying her face in both hands. “I did it,” she mumbles through her fingers.
