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“Sephie, please you can’t just believe everything you’re reading. I love you,” he pleaded desperately.
“You want her to understand that you killed our family?” Mom yelled accusingly. “You heard her, out or I’ll call the police.”
“Out,” I repeat, turning my back to him. How could he do this to me?
Brahms walked slowly out the door without another word. As soon as he was gone, I collapsed in gut-wrenching sobs. I felt lost, betrayed, utterly devastated. Nothing would ever be the same again.
“I want you out too,” Mom added sharply, her expression filled with anger and betrayal.
Her words sliced through me like shards of glass. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
Brahms was already gone, having left after I ordered him out just minutes earlier. I had no one now to turn to for support.
“We didn’t raise you to betray your own flesh and blood this way,” my mother continued. “Your sister deserves better than her fiancé running straight into the arms of her little sister.”
But I didn’t do any of that. Each word was a brutal accusation, knocking the breath from my lungs. I had never seen my mother look at me with such disgust and disappointment.
“I think you should go now, Seraphina,” my father said quietly, not meeting my eyes. It was worse than if he had yelled.
Numb, I somehow managed to pack some of my things. My mother’s searing condemnation echoed in my mind. I had lost my entire family in one fell swoop. All for a man who had lied to me from the start. A man who had killed my brother and my sister. I was alone because of him.
I walked blindly, too hollowed out to feel anything but an aching chasm where my heart had been. My foundations had crumbled to dust. I was utterly lost, and alone.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brahms
(Now)
I’m alone in the music room, seated at the grand piano, though I make no move to play. Instead, my focus is entirely on my right hand resting atop the closed instrument. I methodically bend each finger, assessing the range of motion and biting back winces at the residual stiffness. There’s a definite improvement overall, but progress is slow. The fine motor skills required for playing have a long way to go.
With a frustrated sigh, I curl my hand into a loose fist then extend the fingers wide once more. The tendons stand out and tremble with the effort. It’s been weeks of agonizing work, but only the barest dexterity has returned. I’m able to grasp larger items, yet intricate movements remain beyond my current ability.
Leaning forward, I grasp the edge of the piano, gripping as firmly as I can to test my strength. Better, but still pathetically weak compared to my left hand. Relaxing my hold, I stare down at the traitorous appendage.
“You will heal,” I tell it through gritted teeth. “You will play again. I don’t care how long it takes.”
This hand has created music for decades. I refuse to accept that it may never do so again. Failure is not an option. I must and will regain what I’ve lost, no matter how many long hours of painful therapy it requires. The music—and my life—depends on it.
I’ve spent the last few days thinking about my present—Seraphina and our kids. While doing that, I’ve been speaking with my therapist about the past. Dealing with the pain, losses, and grieving the death of my best friend without feeling guilty for surviving the plane crash.
Coming to the St. Clairmont’s old house and spending time with Seraphina has forced me to confront the countless mistakes I’ve made over the past nine years. The biggest of them? Agreeing to that fabricated story to conceal the truth of the crash. But what’s done is done, and regret won’t change the past. Meeting my children . . . well, that’s woken me up from a long nightmare. I still don’t know where I’m going from here, but I already have a plan on where to start.
My phone buzzes, interrupting my train of thought. It’s a text from Sephie. I can almost imagine the slightly furrowed brow and the hint of concern in her expressive eyes as she typed it.
Sephie: I just got a message that your brothers have arrived.
Brahms: Is there a problem with that?
Sephie: No, though it would be nice if they came earlier. It’s nine o’clock at night. You need to rest.
I want to believe her concern is genuine and that it’s not just about the rules. But there’s a nagging thought in the back of my mind suggesting she’s worried about potential disruptions. The kids, after all, need their sleep. But that wouldn’t be something she’ll admit. It would include telling me she has children—and that I’m a father.
She can keep that secret for now. It doesn’t mean I won’t use that knowledge to poke her and make her squirm just a little with my response:
Brahms: What, do we have visiting hours now? Is this so I don’t upset the other guests in the house?
Sephie’s reply comes almost instantly.
