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By the time we arrived back at his house, my crying had ceased and my thoughts were fixed on my cello. I had an overpowering need to play, to lose myself in my music and relax and escape for a while.

“I’m going to practice my cello for a bit,” I said as Dylan closed the front door. I bolted upstairs, collected my cello case from the packing crates room, and headed to the sanctity of my new bedroom.

Sitting on my new desk chair facing the windows, I started to play, losing myself in Bach’s stirring, beguiling music. I finished the first prelude, delighted I remembered it so well. Given all that had happened, I hadn’t lost my music too. The muscle memory was still there.

“You’re bloody good.”

Tristan was leaning against the door jamb. My breath caught in my throat—from fear or shock that he’d suddenly appeared in my room I didn’t know. Or was it just that I was pleased to see him?

“You’re back,” I squeaked, and my heart lurched into my throat.

“It would appear so,” Tristan said, sounding almost a bit bored.

“How long have you been standing there?” I hadn’t noticed his fragrance, but it hit me now.

Oh, it was heavenly.

His arms were folded, his full lips pressed into a hard, arrogant line, and he was wearing black as per usual. How could someone no longer of this earth be this attractive? Or was he attractive because he was a ghost?

He shrugged. “Long enough to realize that you can’t have been out much and had fun, to play like you do.” His expression was grave. Why was he grim-faced about that? Of course, he was spot on about my lack of social life. Cecilia, my cello, was my closest friend, apart from Pips, of course. Now, I was friendless here in London.

“You seem grumpy,” I observed.

“So would you be if you were—” He stopped and dragged his hand through his floppy brown hair. “If you’d taken those tablets. They have a special place here for suicides,” he added, grimacing.

“I just wanted the pain to go away,” I muttered, embarrassed and defensive in equal measure.

Hell. It was none of his business!

An image of all the bottles flying off the kitchen island came to mind.

If he’d not been there…

“Yeah, right!” he sneered, his expression one of skepticism.

“What is it you want, Tristan?” I asked, no longer pleased to see him.

At my tone, his mouth twitched with a trace of a smile, then he glanced behind me, toward the door.

“He’s coming.”

“Dylan?”

“Who else?” He scoffed, arching an eyebrow.

Why did he never say Dylan’s name?

“He saved someone today,” I said, remembering his heroics.

“Bully for him.”

I frowned. Why the antagonism?

“Don’t go,” I implored him. I had too many unanswered questions.

Tristan’s brow furrowed as he considered my request. “As you wish,” he whispered, his green eyes intense.

There was a knock, and Dylan entered. Tristan stood beside the door, his head to one side as he regarded him with a neutral expression. It was unnerving knowing Dylan couldn’t see him.