Page 3 of Total Exposure

“Dying,” Dan says, doing his thing at the cash register. “Cancer, I think.”

“Oh,” I say, my excitement deflating. “That’s… that’s too bad.”

“Yeah,” Dan says. “How do ya wanna pay?”

“Right,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my envelope of cash and placing it on the counter. I knew he was gonna charge me more than he quoted. He always does. So I always come prepared because the thought of leaving here without it, then having to wait for another cold, snowy day to come back… Not gonna happen. I brought eleven thousand with me. “Gonna take me a second to count it all out.”

“No rush,” Dan says.

So I count out seven thousand-plus dollars and then push the bills towards him. “Double-check to make sure it’s all there.”

My eyes drift over to the stack of cards next to the register. What are you afraid of?

“What are these?” I ask.

Dan ignores me for a second as he finishes his counting and then laughs. “Some guy came in here last summer and paid me a thousand dollars to keep a stack of those on the counter at all times. I have no clue, never called the number, but he says he’ll be back every now and then to check on them, and if they’re there, he’ll give me another grand. So I keep ’em up.”

“Do people take them?” I ask, picking one up to pretend I haven’t already read it.

“Sure. Lots of people. He’s been in here a few times to restock. I’ve made like three grand off the guy already. So fuck it, right? Free money.”

“Yeah,” I say, putting the card down and carefully rearranging the stack. “Fuck it.”

Dan puts my purchase in a plastic drawstring bag that says Mott’s Used Collectables on it, and then slides it across the counter. “So… Evangeline Rolaine then?”

“What?”

“Your next request,” he says with a smirk. “If anyone can find Evangeline, it’s yours truly.”

“Sure,” I say. “Good luck with that. If you find it, please call me first.” I grab my bag and turn to leave, acutely aware that I’ve been in here far too long and said way too much.

“I’ll do that, Angela,” Dan calls after me.

But I’m already back out into the blissful whiteout so his words are just an echo in my head.

When I get back to my penthouse I rip off my coat and scarf, burning up inside from a combination of too many layers and the desire to hear the famous last recording of Mei Ling.

She was only two when her parents put her on stage for the first time. They did it for the same reasons most parents of child musical prodigies do it. Pride. That’s always a factor. Some of them, and Mei Ling’s parents were among those, also do it for fame and fortune. A way to lift an entire family out of poverty.

That’s why my parents did it.

I was four, not two. But what’s the difference between four and two, really? I was way too young to understand anything other than I was doing something that came naturally, something that I understood, something that I loved.

It wasn’t until I was ten that I started realizing how much I’d been used. And it took a few more years, four to be exact, before I… well… let it drive me crazy. When the money ran thin, about the time I was thirteen, we were staying with friends. They weren’t really friends. They were just rich people who wanted me to play at their parties.

By fifteen I was too old to wow crowds with my youth even at stupid rich-people parties. Fifteen-year-old violinists aren’t special. They might not be typical at that skill level, but the oddity is long gone.

The money went with the fame. My parents had bought houses and cars. They’d hired housekeepers and drivers. We had parties until the very last cent was spent. Huge parties with me at the center.

That’s when I’d really had enough. I’d been traveling my whole life, never had a real home, or real friends, or any of the things most teenagers take for granted. Even very poor kids had more of a life than I did.

So I rebelled.

And then the court battles began. I begged a judge for emancipation. Presented my case as methodically as I could, and came out of it free, but utterly alone.

I only had one thing left. One thing my parents didn’t sell, one thing they didn’t get to keep when I left. A rare violin gifted to me by an heiress after a concert when I was only eight years old. I sold the Stradivarius for nineteen million dollars at auction when I was sixteen.

I’ve been living off that violin for more than eleven years now. The money isn’t gone, but there’s not a lot left. I don’t work. I don’t perform. Can’t perform, I remind myself. And that’s not my fault. It’s a sickness. A mental one, yes. But still, a debilitating sickness that I have no control over.