Page 130 of Lethal Obsession

You and me both, lady. I try not to tremble as the lights dim and I take my seat.

Then, just beyond the low ground lights, I see a tall, rangy figure, upright and strong in the middle of the front row, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, I think it is Alexei. Barely a split second later I recognize instead Deda Sergei’s austere, dignified features, his gnarled hands clasped in his lap. He inclines his head very slightly as our eyes meet. It’s the most subtle of gestures, and yet so poignantly like Alexei’s silent, still attention that they could be the same person.

Glaza boyatsya, a ruki delayut. Alexei’s voice is as clear as if he were right here: The eyes are afraid, but the hands do.

I am standing at the river, I realize in a stark moment of clarity. With no choice but to cross it.

I raise my hands over the keys.

As the first delicate chords trickle into the silence, I realize I’ve found the magic after all. The music swells, and I feel like I’m rising above the still pool and the reflection of the arches within it. Like I’m floating in space, looking back at something profoundly beautiful that has been lost.

As the music takes me, my surroundings disappear completely, and instead I can see the Quantum Drift as if from above, a tiny island adrift on the vast ocean. I see Alexei and me down a distant tunnel of time, golden and laughing beneath the Mediterranean sun.

The piece moves on, and like the sun falling behind the sea, I play the bittersweet realization that those perfect days have passed, never to be lived again.

The music flows from my hands into the old stone, echoing from the marble and rippling through the gardens, until I’m no longer playing the piece but lost inside it. It’s only when the final note trembles to stillness on the pool surface that I finally come back to myself.

For a terrible moment, there is utter silence, and I’m hit with a lurch of fear.

Then the stillness is broken by a woman’s hushed voice giving a soft, drawn-out sigh: “Alé . . .”

I realize the speaker is the same matron who glared at me as I took the stage. Her typically Granadino exclamation is echoed by the rest of the audience, who amplify it into the more traditional Spanish cry of “¡Olé!”

I turn to take my bow, slightly taken aback when the audience stands with me, their applause continuing as I take another bow, then another.

I search the faces in the crowd, but it isn’t Benny’s wide grin I settle on, nor Lourdes’s shining eyes.

It’s the sight of twin tears glistening on Deda Sergei’s cheeks, tracing lines on his face so deep the ancient sorrow of the piece itself might have carved them.

“Umnyashka.” Deda Sergei takes my hands in his worn, smooth ones as the audience mills about on the patio, accepting glasses of post-performance champagne. “Ty byla potryasayushchey.”

Smart girl, you were amazing.

“Spasibo.” I kiss him on both cheeks, then stand back, looking into the still-strong blue eyes, so similar to Alexei’s they make my heart ache. “It was your words I heard just before I played.” My voice isn’t quite steady. “Glaza boyatsya, a ruki delayut. I thought of you by that river with Aleksander, and suddenly, my hands knew just what to do.”

His eyes narrow, flaring with a fierce, penetrating blue that momentarily makes him a much younger man, a pakhan feared as much as his son is now. It fades just as suddenly, but the traces of emotion remain on his face.

“V’uchen’ka.” His voice is slightly rough. “I would cross that river a thousand times to hear you play.” His smile carries the weight of years, of pain I know I can never truly understand. “Aleksander would have been so proud to hear his granddaughter create such magic. I am glad I can be his ears.”

He looks over my shoulder and smiles benevolently. “But there will be time for us to talk later, perhaps. For now, the star must accept her bouquets, nyet?” Squeezing my hands a final time, he moves aside, right before Lourdes and Benny almost knock me over with their joint hug.

“Oh my God—”

“I’ve never heard you play like that—”

“You were fucking amazing, bitch!”

“Totally what he said! Mickey!” Lourdes turns to glance over her shoulder. “Tell your sister how amazing she was,” she says, her eyes shining.

“Hey, sibling.” Mickey grins as he nudges me. “For once I understand what your friends are raving about. That really was incredible.”

“Thank you.” I’m starting to feel the familiar washed-out sensation of post-performance adrenaline crash. “That means a lot, Mickey. And thanks for coming tonight.” I turn back to my friends. “And you too, guys. I didn’t expect you to be here. It means so much to me.”

“Thank your divine brother here.” Benny gives me a wicked grin. “He’s the one who flew us in. Well, and the Viking, of course. Strictly speaking, it was an Andersson Technologies plane.”

I shake my head wryly. “You’re incorrigible, Benny, you know that?”

“Oh, I’m just good, baby.”