Page 53 of Total Exposure

“Want to know who we watched?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“What they did for us on camera? Do you like to picture that, Evangeline? Do you like to watch people?” The intercom is nearly all static. So much that I can barely make out his words.

“Better than the alternative,” I say softly, my focus on the empty swing out in the yard.

“OK,” he says. “Get the notebook, write your story, then leave it on the counter and go outside so I can read it. If you satisfy me, I’ll satisfy you.”

That last part comes out crystal-clear. Like it’s the only part of this conversation that matters.

“Why can’t I see you?”

“Because I make the rules.”

The crackling of the intercom speaker cuts off, the conversation over.

Dear Stranger. That’s how I begin my entry in the notebook.

I am here because…

God. I really don’t feel like telling personal things to someone I don’t know. Hell, I hate telling people I know things too. Not that I know a lot of people.

You’re procrastinating, Evangeline.

Yes, I am.

I am here because…

I let out a long breath and write…

I am here because I gave up a while back and… and I don’t want to give up anymore. This fear, which, as you so callously pointed out, will cause me to die alone, started back when I was about ten years old. My public debut started at the age of four. I was one of those special children. Prodigy. Gifted. Old soul. Call it whatever you want, that was me back then. I don’t play the violin. I am the violin. It’s part of me, like an arm or a hand.

But everything has a price. My gift is no exception. I was watched constantly. Not the way one usually watches a child. It’s different. And most people don’t understand it. But I don’t care. This fear I have comes from all the attention I was subjected to when I was young. It got to a point…

I stop and take a deep breath. I’m back in the ballroom, sitting on the couch facing the window, staring out at that stupid empty swing.

It got to a point where I couldn’t have people around me. It started with my staff. Managers and agents and lawyers. I refused to see them. I imagined all the things they thought about me in my head and… and I didn’t like it. Eventually, it spread to everyone, including my parents, and then one night I was in the studio recording a Christmas CD so my parents could afford to pay some of the monumental bills they racked up in my name, and I said, “I can’t do it anymore.”

I put my violin away and walked out in the middle of a song. They never did release that CD. The production company took my parents to court and they had to pay back the advance. Well, I had to pay it back. They were penniless and I was emancipated by the time that was settled.

And that was it. I never performed again.

But your question was, why am I here? Assuming you know that I’ve booked a comeback performance and that date is fast approaching, there’s another reason. I’m out of money. I need to make some fast if I want to maintain my lifestyle. And since playing the violin is the only skill I have, that’s my only option.

And now you owe me. So make sure your story is a good one, Mr. Stranger. Because if it’s not, I’ll be the one walking out on you.

Chapter Eighteen - Ixion

I watched her write. She stopped and started so many times, sighing with such frustration and angst that I assumed the story would have both those qualities to it.

It doesn’t.

Aside from the revelation that she’s booked a comeback performance and needs money—I wasn’t aware, thank you very much, Miss Rolaine—there’s absolutely nothing of note in that story.

But she’s trying. So I’ll try back.

Dear Evangeline,