Mrs. Jorgenson makes a tsking sound with her teeth. “Poor thing. Life is a vale of tears, for certain. One thing after another.” She turns away and leaves him shivering on the porch, but since she doesn’t slam the door in his face, he’s hopeful that she’s gone to get a key.
A moment later she’s back.
“Those kids missed you,” she says. “I never agreed with Lilian kicking you out like that. How are the hands? Did they heal?”
A lump gathers in his throat at this completely unexpected kindness. He shakes his head, not trusting his voice, and accepts the key she drops into his palm.
“You need anything else? Because I’m heading off to bed.”
“This is great. Thank you.” He means for more than the key but doesn’t know how to tell her, hoping she’ll hear it in his voice.
The door closes between them with a small and final click, and he returns to a dark and empty house.
Nothing has changed. The bottle still sits on the counter where he left it. Music plays in his head. He’s wet and shivering and miserable.
Phee is a brightness in his mind—an oasis—and that is yet another loss. He can’t see her again, not after this. Can’t go back to the Angels. He’ll need to find a real AA group tomorrow. His list of things to do feels weighty and overwhelming.
Now, tonight, he needs to get rid of the bottle on the counter, pour it down the sink. Before Allie comes home. Before he succumbs to the comfort it offers. But when he picks it up, he hesitates. It won’t hurt to smell it. A small allowance for everything he’s been through today.
His hands are only too ready to open the bottle. He lifts it to his nose and breathes in, deep, the rich, seductive smell of it flooding his senses.
Maybe just one swallow before he sends it down the drain.
Such a shame to waste it.
It’s been a hard day, he needs something to settle his nerves.
Basically medicinal.
The first swallow warms his throat, his belly. The second eases the knot of fear in his chest. By the third, he’s no longer shivering, but the music is louder, more tormenting.
Bottle in hand, he walks into the music room and opens the case that imprisons the cello. Light gleams on burnished wood. With his eyes, he caresses the curves of her, the beautifully carved scrollwork, the silvery line of the strings.
“You.”
The music in his head goes quiet, but he feels the presence, as if the cello is breathing.
“It’s not my fault,” he says, lifting the bottle to his lips and sucking in a long draught. “You know that, right?”
Silence.
His face is wet before he realizes he is weeping. “Damn you,” he says. “Let me go.”
The cello says nothing. What did he expect? He laughs, wildly, and leaves her there, settling down at the table with his bottle.
When his phone rings, he fumbles the answer button with an upsurge of relief, not checking the caller ID.
“Allie?”
“What is going on, Braden?” Alexandra’s voice, not Allie’s.
“I don’t—”
“I just had a call from an officer. A police officer, Braden.”
His heart stops. He feels like he’s falling, can’t find any words to ask the question that looms in his mind.
“Are you not watching her at all? My God. Arrested at a house party. My heart about stopped when they called me—”
“She’s at a party?”
Braden starts laughing. It’s totally the wrong response, but he has absolutely no control over the sounds coming out of his body. A heady relief floods him, from his toes to the top of his head. Not dead. Not murdered. Not in a ditch somewhere, just a teenage girl caught out at a party.
Such a normal, wonderful thing.
“This is not funny, Braden Healey! Are you drunk?”
She’s right. It’s not funny at all, but still he can’t stop laughing.
“I am. Gloriously drunk. Yes.”
“I see that nothing has changed. Put that poor girl on a plane and send her to me before she has a chance to ruin herself completely.”
“Where is she?”
“That’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to know.”
“But I don’t. And they called you. So if you would kindly relay the information, since you are thousands of miles away and not available to rescue her, I will take care of it.”
“You are not going to drive—”
“Hell no. Not driving. I’ll call an Uber.”
“Can you even write down the address?”
“Just a minute. Yes.” He gets to his feet. The room tilts a little