Page 159 of Down Beat
“I think you must be after one of the residences,” Suresh, my driver, says with a frown. “You want me to stick around?”
Bless him. “No. I’ll be okay. Thank you.”
I slide out of his car, violin case in hand, and check the blouse I’ve borrowed from Kendall. She made me pinky promise to message her in an hour so that she knows I haven’t been chopped into tiny pieces.
Seems everybody is as skeptical of people who book private sessions with violinists as I am.
I make my way into the lobby, overwhelmed by what I’m about to do. Reassuring myself that I’m just as likely to find myself playing to an upmarket birthday party in a large apartment as I am serenading some creepy guy in his small room goes some way toward calming my heart.
But only a little.
“Good evening. How many I help you?” The woman behind the front desk has the most immaculate hair.
I feel as though I just rolled out of bed in comparison.
“Hi. I’ve been booked to play for somebody at number 2/1078?” I lift my violin case for her, as though she needs proof that I’m legit.
“Yes. We have a note to let you up when you arrive.” She glides to the far end of the desk and then returns with a key card. “You’ve been instructed to let yourself in.”
“Thank you.” I take the slip of plastic from her. “I don’t need anything special to reach the right floor?”
She shakes her head ever so gently. “Only that. You’ll see the directory next to the lifts.”
“Thank you.”
I count my steps on the way over, hoping the forced focus will settle my nerves. My phone vibrates against my thigh as I step before the brass-framed directory. I decipher which floor I need as I pull the device out, using the end of my violin case to nudge the call button.
The light above the lifts illuminates as I switch my phone to silent, and then slide it back in my pocket. It feels unprofessional having it on me, but if this had turned out to be some whacko, I wanted the option of calling for help.
The ride to the right floor breezes by, helped out by the fact I keep busy running the songs I’ve chosen to play through my mind. I chant the names in my head as I walk the hall, searching for the number.
It’s disturbingly quiet up here. I half expected the spill of chatter from the apartment when I reached it, or at least some indication of what goes on inside. Yet there’s nothing.
Overthinking again, Tab. Don wouldn’t have sent me here if the details didn’t check out. Hell, I doubt crazy murderers are the kind to spring several hundred on a rent-a-musician just to get their kicks.
The lock beeps with the swipe of the card, the solid clunk of the rod disengaging announcing my arrival. I push the door open, not at all surprised to find a wide-open expanse of a place on the other side. The room appears to extend to the left, all the way to the end of the building, large windows on two sides showcasing the city at night.
Aside from a floor lamp at the intersection of the two cream sofas, there aren’t any lights on.
“Hello?”
I take a step forward, and still again when my boot makes a strange sound. An envelope sits under my toe, wrinkled where I’ve stood on it. I give the place another sweep, and then stoop to retrieve it.
- Read me.
What in the ever-loving hell?
I set my violin next to the entrance table, and slide out the card in the envelope.
- Days sober: 94. Your next card is in the same place as where we first kissed at your apartment.
Oh, hell to the no. “Rey?”
Cold, empty silence answers me. I cross the living space to the spot on the carpet next to the sofa. Sure enough, another glossy envelope sits waiting.
- Suicidal thoughts before you left: almost daily.
- Suicidal thoughts after you left: 7.