then carefully follow her trail. The hallway is wide, and I use my cane for guidance.
“Where are the stairs again?”
She directs me from the second floor. “Stop!” She says as I nearly ram into the base of the spiral staircase. My hand glides over a polished banister as I curve up in a semicircle while Savi begins one of my favorite songs, Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1. I listen to the bobbing broken chords and the tranquility that seeps through the entire piece. She fumbles through some of the progressions, but I applaud her effort, even from the top stair. It reaches its peak and then she finishes. I step into a room to my right and clap. “That was unbelievable!” I exclaim. “Do you know how hard that piece is?”
“I messed up a few times though.”
Still, the pride is evident. I sit beside her on the small couch. “What room is this?”
“It’s an office, but I use it as my music room. Mom says when I’m older, I can have a music studio.”
“Good acoustics in here though.”
“I know.” To demonstrate, she plays another impossible riff. “The ceilings are really high.”
I sit beside her. “I know people my age who can’t play that well. You truly have a gift, young lady.”
“Thank you. Can we play right now? I’ve missed it so much.”
I hesitate. It’s only been a few days, but she’s right—it feels like ages since we last played together. Though I’m here to ask for Crystal’s help, not play an instrument. But really … what will Crystal be able to do? Force the police to tell me what’s going on? If Jake says they are getting closer, then I believe him. I have to believe him.
All leads take time, and time is literally my enemy. I need it to pass as quickly as possible. “I’d have to go get my cello.”
“You can play this one. I have my old one.”
“Wait. You got a new cello?”
“Mom got it for me yesterday. Here.” She hands it over. I inspect every inch. It’s a nice one—much too nice for a child.
“Is this a Cecilio?”
“No,” she says. “It’s a Holstein Bench Davidoff.”
“What?” I calculate the price in my head. I’ve seen this go easily for eight thousand dollars, but I know Crystal doesn’t have that kind of cash to throw at a new instrument. “Lucky girl.” I sweep my hair over one shoulder. “What do you want to play?”
“Brahms?”
“Ambitious. I like it.” I tell her to locate the Cello Sonata No. 1 and begin from memory. She joins, and we get swept away in the music. I detach from my role as a mother, a widow, and someone who’s utterly lost. I find myself in my music. I’ve always found myself in my music. I close my eyes and sway with every chord progression. Savi struggles to keep up, and I slow the pace just a bit, but after a moment, she stops and lets me continue by myself. Everything builds: my passion, my pain, my agony, until I explode into the final few chords. Sweat trickles down the side of my face, mixed with tears.
“Ms. Rebecca, are you crying?”
I smile. “Sorry. Sometimes, the music moves me. Hazard of the profession, I’m afraid.” I wipe my face with a sleeve. “Can I use your bathroom?” I lower my bow and carefully prop the cello against the couch.
“It’s the first door on the right.” She continues to read the music, hammering the same sections over and over until they are smooth and even. How had we gone from playing simple ballads like “My Heart Will Go On” to Brahms in a matter of months? It doesn’t compute.
I slide my hand along the wall to find the bathroom. At the sink, I wash my hands and stare into the foggy mirror. My vision is getting so much worse. If I’d known I’d never see my own face again, I wouldn’t have ever spent a second of my life disparaging my features. I would have memorized the exact color of my green eyes and thanked them. I would have worshipped my nose, my dimples, the curve of my mouth, my teeth, my jaw, my skin, all of it.
Instead, all I have is the memory of me, which is fading with every passing breath. I flip off the light, swat for the bathroom door, and unlock it. The notes stop. The scribble of a pencil makes me smile as I realize Savi is taking notes.