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Why had Amber been at the subway station? Emily had not known Amber to go on a subway more than once or twice. She didn’t leave the downtown area.
“I warned you against becoming friends with her.”
An icy chill ran through her body at the realization that her friend’s death had been no accident.
She stared hard at the sparkling crystals in the island, trying to contain her tears. Amber had been the one person who she’d confided in about her past. The one person she had bonded with at the restaurant and had a relationship with.
And now she was dead.
“The apartment has been cleaned and Amber’s things have been removed. It will be cleaned twice a week, but don’t be a slob.” He arched a brow at Emily. “I realize it didn’t matter what your old place looked like, as I could ignore your lack of décor and style, but here, it matters. The men who will visit you have very high expectations and I won’t hear the end of it if they’re disappointed.”
“How often will I entertain visitors?” Her voice cracked over the question as she struggled to hide the grief filling her heart.
“It depends. No one should bother you on your days off. This is strictly an after-work activity. If they want more, they have to speak to me first.” He raised his eyebrows. “The good news is you won’t have to work the back room anymore. Unless you misbehave.”
Emily kept her face impassive. The back room was unpleasant on the best of nights. Humiliating, painful, and depressing the rest of the time. It was an excellent deterrent to misbehavior.
Geoffrey slapped the apartment key on the counter. “This will be good for you, Emily. Go pack up your things and move in this afternoon. Your first shift will be Wednesday evening.”
Geoffrey left and Emily collapsed onto the white tile floor, tears streaming down her cheeks. With Amber around, she hadn’t felt so alone. She’d had a friend. But Amber was gone now and she was alone.
Again.
Six
Emily trudgedinto the metro station, her heart heavy as she tried not to think about the way Amber had been murdered. She briefly considered going to the police, but she wasn’t suicidal.
A woman bumped into her and glared as Emily jumped out of the way. She moved closer to the side wall and made her way to a group of benches to wait the few minutes until her train arrived to go to her old apartment.
She collapsed onto a bench, clutching the seat’s edge and staring at the enormous poster advertising the Kennedy Center hanging on the two-story marble wall across from her. It announced the name of a new conductor. A handsome man in his late thirties stood with his arms crossed, a conductor’s baton in one hand, looking solemn, as violins and cellos floated around him.
What had happened to Maestro Pavolini? He’d been the conductor of the DC Symphony Orchestra for as long as Emily could remember. She’d gone to a concert once, shortly after she began working at the Café, but it had been a long, painful night, and she’d sworn never to go again.
A sound caught her attention. Familiar. But she couldn’t place it in her memory. She searched the area for the source, but it had stopped. It started again and her chest ached as if she’d been punched in the ribs. Tears rushed to her eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.
Music1.
But not just any music.
Violin.
No. Anything but that!
Across the way stood a tall thin man playing the violin. He moved the bow across the string and the notes soared across the marble hall and fell right into Emily’s ears, paralyzing her entire body, except for her heart, which danced in her chest.
He stood near the entrance, his black t-shirt and worn jeans a sharp contrast to the white wall. His hair and face were hidden beneath a worn gray ball cap. He swayed with the music that seemed not only to come from his instrument, but his entire body.
Her body moved against her will, taking her across the lobby toward the sound, unable to pull her eyes away from the man. She had to be closer to the music. Her mind screamed in protest, but her heart wouldn’t listen.
The man’s eyes were closed and his jaw moved as if he were singing to himself as his fingers danced across the strings.
Oh, that music-induced trance! When the music took on a life of its own and you couldn’t help but go along for the ride. The most wonderful feeling in the world.
She stopped several feet away and closed her eyes with him. The piece was familiar but she couldn’t place the title. It sounded like a lullaby. Colors splashed beneath her eyelids: blues and greens until the music became more intense. Then the colors changed to golds and reds and purples. She soared through the sky with him on the soft wings of the music and let it surround her like a warm, healing blanket.
* * *
