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In the tapestry of time, our threads intertwine.
So here’s to the memories, and here’s to the pain,
To the unspoken words, in the falling rain,
In the heart of the country, under wide, open skies,
I’ll hold a place for you, until our last goodbye.
The final note trembled on her lips, and applause filled the room. The earsplitting cheers jarred me. I stopped jigging my knee. She grinned, thanking the crowd in a hushed murmur. Then she launched into another song.
This was my stalker?
When her set ended, Men gathered around her, tossing cash in her open guitar box. Violet glowed at them. Her smile never faltered, even as she declined a drink from an enthusiastic fan. Everyone got a heartfelt thank-you.
The crowd dwindled, and the band packed up, their job done—like mine was about to be. I finished my beer, setting the glass down.
I stood. My shoes clicked against the wooden floor.
Violet, alone at the edge of the stage, stowed her guitar. Shadows danced across her face. She was vibrant, alive, and apparently, stalking me. And just so happened to have a kid with an unsettling resemblance to me.
At the restaurant, she’d been as sweet as a Georgia peach. Almost had me fooled. The undercurrent of spice underneath the sugar intrigued me. Violet wasn’t afraid to go toe to toe with murderers. She’d put on an act. Pretended not to know me—why?
I closed the distance. Made my eyes as cold as the end of a gun. Putting the fear of God into people was my bread and butter. But tonight, it didn’t feel like a job. It felt personal.
SIX
VIOLET
People lined up to toss money into my case. Sitting on the stage, I smiled and thanked everyone, but I didn’t feel any joy. I used to soak in applause like sunshine, but all of it echoed hollowly in my chest.
I brushed the varnished wood of Lucille, my sister’s Gibson. Elise made such beautiful music with this guitar. Singing without her pained me, like drawing breaths with something sharp poking my ribs. Music was as much a part of our lives as the ground we walked on. Back home, Elise and I harmonized under the open sky. We were the staple at every festival. We recorded in the studio. I came up with the melodies—she wrote the lyrics.
My jaw aching from all the smiling, I tucked Lucille in the case like it was her son. Then the hairs on my neck prickled.
A heavy foot scraped the floor behind me.
I whirled around.
Achille stood in front of a table, his head cocked. He wore a ribbed leather jacket and a black shirt over jeans, his hair teased into a rebellious wave. I tensed as he reached into his back pocket, but he only pulled out his wallet. He grabbed a crisp note from it and tossed it into the case.
I didn’t look at it. My heart was one giant wound. Too sore. If only she hadn’t met this man. If only she’d seen through the danger and run away. I forced my body to remain still and stared him down.
How did he find me? Why is he here?
“That was some song,” he murmured.
“What’re you doin’ here?”
“You and your boy left quite an impression the other day,” he said, his expression impassive. “Thought I’d see if you were any good.”
I smiled. “I guess you found out.”
“You have an amazing voice.”
My grin widened, but I wanted to puke. “That’s sweet of you to say, but that song is a work in progress.”
“Sounds complete to me.”
