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Chapter Fifteen
He had spent every day with Zoey and his nights were back at the hotel reviewing more files with Doug. Although he hated to admit it, Bennett still wasn’t able to locate the information regarding the original owners of the piano. He was able to locate a business name on the bottom of the bench and Doug had tracked down a high-end piano store in New York under that name. Neither knew if that was where it had been purchased since a name wasn’t much to go on. Even if she had purchased it there, he wasn’t sure they’d have any record still on file. He’d placed a call to the store’s owner but hadn’t heard back. Waiting was not his strength.
Leaving her now wasn’t the best timing. She was changing, becoming more comfortable with herself and him. It was refreshing. But Bennett needed to remind himself why he was here in the first place. This job, being here, wasn’t about his feelings for Zoey, or at least, it wasn’t supposed to be. It’s about her mother, her health, her future.
Going to New York tomorrow might work out perfectly. Jon should have the results for him as well. With that information, he could work on the next phase. Finally locating her mother. He still hadn’t determined if he would try to find all six mothers yet. It was an undertaking that he hadn’t been hired to do, and one he wasn’t sure he should do.
From his meeting with her brothers, it appeared that only Alex wanted anything to do with the past. Trying to figure out why a Henderson felt or did something wasn’t easy. Bennett hadn’t inquired why they each felt the way they did, but now wished he had. It might have helped shed some light on what was also going on with Zoey. His concern was it would be like opening Pandora’s box. What lies within might be bigger than anyone could imagine. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to pry for more information. Maybe when I get back I’ll pay Alex another visit.
“I need you to keep an eye on Zoey for me for a few days.”
“Where are you off to?”
“I want to talk to Jon regarding the results.”
Doug arched his brow. “And?”
“Does there need to be more?” Bennett asked, agitation in his voice.
“No. But I know you. There’s more,” Doug said, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. “You’re not going to let this music thing go, are you?”
“I can’t.”
“Bennett, some things are private. Open your eyes. Whatever caused her to be that angry will only make her resent you if you don’t drop it.”
Doug might be right, but for some reason, it wouldn’t leave him. He heard the music in his sleep. He found himself humming the tune. Getting the answer wasn’t just about her any longer.
“She doesn’t need to know.”
“What exactly are you looking for?”
He knew the answer seemed ridiculous. Someone would need to have heard the piece to know, to understand. “The composer.”
Doug slapped his hand on the table, got up, and walked around the room as though in disbelief. “Who cares who wrote it? You’re not here to find a composer. You’re here to find her mother. You’re going to risk everything, not just this job, but your relationship with Zoey to get a name of someone who put notes on a piece of paper? Have you lost your fucking mind?”
I know I have. Doug couldn’t understand. When he played that composition, he’d felt a connection. Although he couldn’t compose music, it was something he would’ve written. And for the first time, he’d found himself adding to a piece. Never before had his fingers glided along the keys without knowing the direction to take. Finding the answers wasn’t about just Zoey’s reaction. It was about his as well. Whoever had written it had opened a door for him that he’d never believed he had. It isn’t my composition, but there is now a piece of me in it. I can’t just walk away from that.
“You know I lost it a long time ago,” Bennett said seriously. Maybe I’m trying to find it now.
“Whatever you’re looking for, I hope you’re ready for the answer.”
Bennett shot him a look. His gut was telling him Doug knew something he wasn’t sharing. That’s not the way this was supposed to work. “Spill it,” Bennett barked. Doug stopped and glared at Bennett. He knew he’d been right in calling Doug out.
“The composer might not want to be found.”
What the hell does that mean? “The music is brilliant. Why wouldn’t someone want it shared with the world?”
“You’re not thinking like a composer. You’re thinking like someone that only plays what others compose.”
Bennett knew he wasn’t a composer. That didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the art. “And you know the difference how?”
“Many people will write their feelings or experiences in a journal. There are musicians who use their music to capture that.”
“That is well known. What does that have to do with the music I found?”
“Bennett, it was hidden away. That says the composer wanted it that way. It isn’t for you to decide if it should be heard or played by others.”
He had never used a journal. Bennett wrote reports, but anything that troubled him was kept bottled up inside. For years he’d heard Doug tell him he needed to find an outlet. Bennett’s way of coping was working more, harder. If he stopped too long and was idle, his demons encroached. They were memories he faced but never honestly dealt with. Even now if he thought about them, he’d feel uncontrollable anger flood through him. It may have been years ago, but the senseless deaths seemed all too fresh. What he’d seen, felt, he’d never wanted on paper in any form. Not in word or in musical notes.
