Page 23 of Petrify

It is dark, almost midnight when she finishes, only a few soft lights holding the night at bay. She always leaves them on when she exits the parlor. Is she scared of the dark? Or something else?

Most nights, I follow her back to her room.Myold room. I’ve become bold, following behind in the hall, a few paces back, silent, so she never even knows.

She’s beginning to sleep more soundly. Those first few nights, she wrestled fitfully in her sleep. But now she slumbers the whole night with barely a movement, her lithe limbs encased in the sheets.

Except some nights, her heart races, and she moves, restless. Eyes popping open to the dark. Wandering around the room,unseeing. Like the veil hasn’t lifted from her mind, and yet here she walks amongst the living.

She’s looking for me. The source of her torment.

Something plagues her.

It’s easy to slink into Leo’s office at night. He locks the door, but I know the code on the keypad—his birthday. It’s so obvious, I’m almost disappointed, but you can’t expect anything else from a man like him.

The office holds remnants of the Beauchenes that came before him: the painted portrait of his great-grandfather hanging behind the desk, the bookcases with gilded editions in neat rows, an array of the newest monitors on the antique walnut desk, which is polished to a shine. His father’s paperweight, the family’s bible in a locked case against the wall, over which an old hunting rifle is hung. Not a single speck of dust.

With the light off, I am still able to find my way around, having broken in many times before. But is it reallybreaking and enteringif this is my house too?

I sink into the plush leather chair. The password to the computer—the same as the door.

An hour later, with the entirety of the internet at my fingertips, I’ve found out more than enough about our new tutor.

A high school student from the city that found herself at one of the most prestigious music colleges in the northeast. Four years earning a degree in musical performance, graduating with academic honors. No clubs or societies. One single interview on the music department’s news page, from two years ago. Sheplanned to continue at the school and earn her Master’s. It lists her accolades in the school’s symphony, and her mentor.

Jason Howard. DMA candidate.

Both of them, so close to the finish line.

And then?—

Nothing.

It’s not hard to find out what happened there. A quick search, and the end result of that is only a few clicks away.

My Mallary is no good girl.

Chapter 13

The Pianist

A week goes by,with obvious improvement already by Henri. He’s quite serious about his practicing, even if he does seem pretty tired, far beyond the talents of anyone I knew at his age. He listens to my every word like it’s the gospel. He takes this seriously—almost far too seriously for an eight year old—and it shows in his playing.

When the end of our lesson comes, the door to the room opens right on time. But it’s not Ms. Wilder who steps through.

I’ve largely been able to avoid Mr. Beauchene. What he’s up to during the day, I don’t know. A man with that much hunger in his eyes is never a good thing.

Henri stumbles over the end of the etude he’s running through when his father walks into the room.

Leo’s smile is pleasant enough, an easy set to his shoulder, hands in his pockets.

“One more time, Henri,” I say. Focusing on the young boy, pretending my employer isn’t in the room, is the only way I know how to remain composed.

If I talk too much, if I talkat all, I’ll make a fool of myself.

Henri pauses for a moment, resetting his hands and taking a breath like I taught him, before he begins again.

For a whole minute, as Henri plays, I stare only at his small hands moving across the keys, but every atom in my body is aware of Leo Beauchene. A tense, tight feeling in my breastbone. Nothing like the awareness of the eyes of the ghost, which are curious, observant, if a bit guarding. No, there’s something dark in Leo’s attention.

And when Henri completes the short tune, I point out a few moments in the sheet music where his tempo needs work. “Remember the emphasis is on the quarter notes, not the eighth notes. We’ll work on it a bit more tomorrow,” I say, shutting off the clicking metronome.