“Or how about the Grandes études de Paganini? ‘La campanella.’ I like the piece, and that should tell you a thing or two about my hand’s strength.”

Mark said, “Tell him if he has any pain to stop playing immediately.”

Birenbaum said, “That’s fine, Gabe, but watch your left hand. If you feel any twinge of anything, stop playing. Your hand is what’s important here.”

“Sure.” Again, Gabe stared into space for a few moments, readjusting the bench for his feet. The etude started out with a few light touches, but then quickly progressed into an exquisite series of bell-like passages with the boy’s right hand moving a mile all the way up the keyboard to a series of lightning-fast trills, and ended with a rousing climax. It was a beautiful and complex piece of music that traversed an emotional spectrum, but Rina felt that Gabe chose it because, more than anything, it showcased virtuosity. Four minutes and thirty-two seconds later, again, she was stunned into silence.

This jewel that had been entrusted into her care.

Gabe rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. “A little dicey. Not my best, not my worst. I made some mistakes. My left hand’s definitely off. But it should heal, right?”

Birenbaum cleared his throat into the microphone. “It should heal fine. I’ll be out in a minute, Gabe.” Matt turned to his ponytailed friend. “That was weird.”

“You might say that. Where’d he come from?”

They both looked at Rina.

“It’s a long story.”

“So what do you think, Nick?” Birenbaum asked.

“What do I think?” The man shrugged. “The kid’s a freak.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

IT WAS THE first time that Rina had seen the boy display unfettered emotion. Too bad it was anxiety. His eyes got big and his breathing quickened. His gaze was on Nicholas Mark. “Were you listening to me?” He regarded Rina. “Did you set this up?”

“Set what up?” she asked.

“No one set anything up. I just happened to be here getting my hand checked,” Mark told him. “Dr. Birenbaum invited me to listen.”

Gabe said. “I can do better than that. That stunk!”

“Stank,” Rina corrected.

“Stunk. Stank. I can do better than that. I swear I can. My hand’s off. Not that I’m making excuses. It’s just that I know that I can do better—”

“Relax.” Mark put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“I know I made mistakes. It wasn’t my best at all—”

Rina said, “Excuse my ignorance, but are you a pianist?”

Birenbaum said, “Nicholas Mark is not only a renowned pianist, but he is at the forefront of modern composition for the piano.”

“That’s great,” Rina said. “We’re looking for a piano teacher—”

The boy spoke through clenched teeth. “Uh, I don’t think Mr. Mark needs to be bothered with our trivial problems.”