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“As I mentioned earlier, there’s not much to say,” I murmur, avoiding her gaze. Part of me wants to confide in her, to let it all out. But the weight of secrets and years of silence make it hard to find the words.
“Well, you’ve known him for a long time, right?”
I clench my jaw, waiting for whatever she’s about to ask or suggest.
“I mean, according to the quick search I did, Zane and Brahms knew each other when they were eight and ten.” I nod once because there’s no point in denying what’s out there, is there?
This is what I hate about the internet. Everyone can just push a few buttons and find out almost anything about celebrities. Brahms, his brothers, and bandmates—including Zane, who liked to play but loved his privacy—are completely exposed to everyone. The old grief begins to well up.
“They were . . . very close, like brothers,” I say after a moment, the words strained with old grief.
“Is it true he’s broken because Iris, the love of his life, died in that accident?” she asks eagerly, like a fan trying to unearth juicy gossip no one else has discovered.
I stare at her. This wasn’t what I thought she would say or ask. His relationship with Iris was . . . well, no one knew about it before the accident. That came out later, way after . . .
“Blythe, leave it alone,” I plead quietly.
“So, you two were in love, but he chose your sister instead?” she presses on, excited that she came up with the entire story all by herself. “Pretty twisted love triangle, like something out of a soap opera.”
“Blythe, stop writing a crazy novel in your head, okay?”
She nods, pressing her lips together. “Listen, if you two had such a close relationship or you were in love with him, maybe it’s unethical for you to be his therapist.”
“First of all, I wasn’t in love with him or anything, okay?” I lie. “We just knew each other when we were children. Sure our lives were tied together back then, but that’s all.”
She frowns. “Isn’t that basically the same thing?”
“I don’t think so, but it’ll be wise to research and find other people to work with him if that’s the case,” I suggest, brightening a little.
On one hand I want to be there to see if I can get him to confess his crime and get thrown into jail, but what if I can avoid him while saving the center?
With a tired sigh, I manage a small, reassuring smile. “Either way, it’ll be fine.”
“You can assign someone else the overnight shifts,” Blythe offers with a shrug, unable to commit. “I wish I could help but . . .”
I understand she has other obligations, and we can’t just drop stuff to service others at night.
“Someone else can do it,” I assure her.
“And if not?”
Blythe watches me closely, brows drawn together. I shrug.
“I can help you a couple of nights,” she offers.
But it’s not that easy. We both know it. I can use the rooms in the house, but it’s risky. Too risky to let my guard down and lose what matters to me. It’s like that day when I got the call about the accident and everything changed in one moment. I couldn’t fix anything.
Chapter Ten
Seraphina
(Then)
Why did I think biochemistry would be a degree I could just take on? I regretted saying that I could study medicine. Like my brother, I should’ve just become a musician, or I could’ve chosen to do what Iris does . . . well, I couldn’t exactly be a model like her.
But being a musician wasn’t hard. Roger Ehrenberg said he would be more than happy to help me with my career, I had talent. However, I thought becoming a doctor and helping others might be more productive. I stared at my book, drank my fourth cup of coffee and groaned, dropping my head into my hands. I had to memorize an entire chapter for a test. And this was just the beginning of a long period where I was just going to be committed to memorizing books and lectures.
“Save me from this torture,” I pleaded as the shrill ring of the phone pierced the quiet of my room. I glanced at the clock—it was past ten on a Wednesday night. Who could be calling this late?
