He took her hand. “Thank you, Ruby. I knew I could trust you. And thanks for tonight. I know that Constance is quite … unusual, I suppose. It’s partly that she doesn’t see many people. Because of the illness.”

“She’s not paste?”

He shook his head. “No, she’s not paste. She’s special in her own way. One of a kind. And you, well. You’ve got skills and passion. What you did to ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’ back there …”

“Not me. Mozart.”

“But you played it. You interpreted it. And you could probably have written it.”

Ruby laughed, slightly hysterically. “No, I couldn’t.”

“But you do compose, don’t you?”

Suddenly shy, she said, “I don’t, not really. I mean, I have, but nothing any good. Nothing I would show to anyone. And nothing that could even touch Mozart with a hundred-foot pole.”

She thought he would laugh then, but he remained serious.

“I want to hear it.”

“What?”

“Your music. The stuff that comes from you. That you wrote.”

“But it’s not very—”

“Please, Ruby.”

“But I—”

He was at the door, opening it. “Just think about it, yes?”

Before she could answer, he was gone.

CHAPTER

16

NOW

Joanna

Saturday, December 22

GREGOR FRANKS WAS very good-looking, even unconscious. Not pretty-boy good-looking but old-school handsome, so that his three-day stubble only added to the effect of rugged, symmetrical masculinity. He had a substantial upper body with defined pectorals, slim waist, strong thighs—clearly a gym bunny. She hadn’t noticed when they hauled him from the bath, but he was tall: his bare feet were right at the end of the bed, almost hanging off. The fit body made his presence here even more tragic. For all of his physical grace, the man lay motionless on the bed, his arms draped at his sides, his head encased in a protective foam helmet.

“There’s really nothing you can do for him?”

When Joanna had arrived at the ICU, Doctor Locke had shown her into the patient’s room, a private space separated from the rest of the unit.

“The team worked on him for almost four hours after he came in. We tried everything to get his blood pressure up, but nothing improved it.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“It means unfortunately his blood pressure is so low as to be incompatible with a life expectancy of any more than a few hours. Days, perhaps.”

The oxygen mask on Gregor’s face misted gently at the nostrils.

“What are the machines for? Is that a ventilator?”

“No, just oxygen. And the other one is monitoring his heart rate.”

“He’s breathing on his own?”

“For now.”

“But you don’t think he’ll recover?”

“I’d say it’s highly unlikely.”

A large, bearded nurse entered the room, picked up the chart at the end of the bed, and made a note.

“Are you the next of kin?” he asked Joanna.