A burn crept up my throat. Because I’d considered that very thing. More than once. The first time a detective had shown up at my door to question me. To show me the similarities between one of my pieces and the mangled body of a murder victim. Even after they’d caught the man who’d been doing it all, I’d continued dying a little more inside every day of the trial. Every time a reporter called. But I couldn’t let Josiah Mosely win. I couldn’t let the doubt that had sunk in with each headline questioning my motives for making such dark work take over my life. I had to keep pushing on.

“I’m not throwing in the towel.”

“Good. Now take a walk or something. Breathe that fresh air stuff you seemed so adamant about. And then get your ass back to work.”

I chuckled. “Are you my new Lara?”

He scowled at me. “That was uncalled for.”

“If the shoe fits…”

“I’m hanging up now.”

My finger hovered over end on the screen. “Thanks, Car.”

“Always happy to pull your head out of your ass.”

He disconnected before I had a chance to reply. But as I pushed to my feet and away from my desk, I had a bit of a grin stretching my face. Good friends always knew the buttons to push.

I headed for the front door, pausing to grab a jacket. The mid-January weather wasn’t quite as bad as New York could be, but it wasn’t balmy either. As I headed down the path, I heard the faint sounds of machinery in the distance—the crew digging out the foundation of what would be my studio. Hopefully, a building that would see more use than the sunporch had so far. But as I followed a trail leading in the opposite direction, another sound peeked out from under the machinery noise.

Music. Strings. A haunting melody. Far too raw to come from a stereo. I found myself moving towards the sound before I even thought twice. It seemed to hook me and pull me in, an invisible cord wrapping tighter around me as I walked.

I came to a stop outside the small cottage that belonged to Shay. I stood outside her front door, transfixed. I didn’t know much about music, the rules or whatever it was that made someone talented. But whatever she was doing had me spellbound. I couldn’t move forward to knock on the door or move away to leave her in peace. I could only stand and listen. Soak in every note. The way the melody dipped and soared. When it eased off and when it attacked. The piece was a battle, and I only wanted more.