He hesitates like he really doesn’t want to, but aims it at the floor. I note that he doesn’t put it away. “You shouldn’t be in here. Go back to the party, Tallie.”
Deranged laughter bubbles from my chest. I slump against a drum kit, accidentally clacking one cymbal. A mixture of fear and relief courses through me and escapes in this bizarre giggling I can’t seem to get under control, like some spirit’s taking possession of my body. After a few awkward seconds, I gasp a few deep breaths, hating that I’m so unsettled and reacting like this.
“I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before,” I say, twitching as the after-shock of the outpouring abates.
“Never aimed a gun at my wife before either.”
“Did you like it?”
“Only a little.” He shoves the gun back into his belt and turns toward the piano. “Go back downstairs, Tallie.”
“Are you going to play music?”
“Tallie—“
“Or are you just going to keep doing whatever you’re doing?”
“This doesn’t concern you. Actually, it’s better if you walk away.”
I inch closer instead. “They’ll catch you, you know. If I did, the Sarkissians definitely will.”
“We’ll see about that,” he mutters, cursing to himself as he tries twisting something I can’t quite see inside the piano’s body.
“Is this why you agreed to marry me? So you’d have access to this room while everyone was distracted?”
“Would it help if I said yes?”
“Kind of, actually. Why else would you agree to be my husband? I mean, seriously, this whole thing is fucked up, isn’t it?”
He pauses in his work. “Tallie, I can’t keep saying it over and over, so please listen. It’s dangerous to be in here right now. Walk away, go back to the party, and pretend like you never saw me. I’ll be down shortly.”
“What are you doing, anyway?”
“Trying to make this fucking thing sing.” He knees the body and grimaces. That must’ve hurt. “If you make me ask again, I’m going to drag you back.”
“No, you aren’t. If you do that people will ask questions, and you really don’t want anyone to know you were in here, do you?”
He looks over and seems thoughtful for the first time, like he’s only just realizing I’m there. “I could kill you easily enough.”
“Guns make a lot of noise.”
“You think I can’t do it quietly?”
“There’d be questions. Like, hey, where did the bride go?”
“If I’m right, it won’t matter.” He returns to his task. “Last chance. I’m desperate enough to do something stupid.” His arms twist, shoulders working. “Please don’t make me.”
I believe him. I can tell he’s not only saying this to scare me off.
He really doesn’t want me here because whatever it is that he’s doing is crazy and dangerous.
But why would Brenden be working on a piano at his own wedding? Why would he try something like this, even knowing it’s likely going to get himself killed?
Only if it were important.
On a whim, heart racing, fear slicking sweat down my back, I slide my phone from the small pocket of my dress, and press the camera button. I raise the screen, adjust my positioning?—
And snap a photo of Brenden, hunched over the piano, clearly doing something to what looks like a safe hidden inside.
