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“I don’t know what that means.”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Dark and powerful, filled with gravitas. That’s the C. And the A string is … let’s see, dominant. Penetrating. Bright.”
He regarded the cello by the door, at rest like a relic, the stand cradling its hips and supporting its neck with care. The bottom curve of the waist was powdered with dust. His OCD scratched at him. He wondered why a cello that fine wasn’t in a case. But Echo was scarcely in a place to care for herself, let alone a stringed instrument.
He searched for another route in. “You think in music.”
She nodded faintly, her expression distant, bruised. “Jacqueline du Pré lost feeling in her fingers. Multiple sclerosis. Can you imagine? That left-hand technique—unparalleled. Such a loss. She must have woken up every morning and …” She stared over at the cello with enmity.
“You don’t play anymore,” Evan said.
No answer.
“Why not?”
“Practicing, it’s how I work out what’s going on inside me. When I’m sad? Bach’s Second or Fifth Suite. Angry? Shostakovich’s Eighth Quartet sets me right. But I can’t anymore. Doesn’t feel, I guess, safe. To go all the way inside myself.”
“What do you play when you’re scared?”
She chewed her lip, breathed in her tea. With her flawless skin and brilliant blue eyes, she looked like a fallen angel. “I don’t.” She gazed at him through a wobbly rise of Earl Grey steam. “Why are you so interested in Luke?”
“I’ve been asked to look into him.”
“For what?”
“To see if he deserves to be … held accountable.”
She laughed, but there was no mirth in it. Her mug was set down on the coffee table with a clink. She crossed her slender legs, drew the purple blanket around her like a robe, and leaned forward, confessional.
“There was this girl I really didn’t like. In college. Total bitch. Fucked my best friend’s boyfriend. We were at …” Her voice faltered. “A fraternity party. She was drunk, super flirty. Grabbing guys’ crotches through their jeans, all that. Head drooping, barely conscious. And at a certain point, a few of the guys, they just …” Her hand waved at the air, a dying motion. “Carried her out. Back to a bedroom. And even though I hated her, I felt sick for her. Worried. I was … I don’t know, four, five drinks in myself. And I watched them carry her back, and I was scared to speak up—I was just a dumb freshman—and I don’t know … I don’t know if I would’ve found my voice if I’d liked her more. Do you know how awful that is? I still see it perfectly—them around her, five, six guys like pallbearers. And her arm was the only thing visible betweenthem, just dangling. And I was so drunk and so scared and such a fucking coward. And maybe—” She pressed her knuckles against her mouth, and her chest heaved once, twice, silently. “Maybe this, what happened to me, with Luke, was my punishment. Maybe we all need to be held accountable. What if we’re all responsible? For everything?”
“That’s what drove you onto the ledge?”
She nodded. “I can’t get it out of my brain. How I’m responsible for everything that ever happened to me. And … um, to everyone else I’ve ever met. And I can’t remember what it feels like not to feel this way. I think that … that I might be going crazy.”
Evan looked down. His hands were crossed, body still.
She said, “Can I tell you a secret?” Her thin eyebrows lifted. “I know I’m not going to kill myself. I was just waiting …”
“What?”
“For someone to notice. To make me real again.”
“You’re a music therapist.”
“I am.”
“Are there therapists for therapists?”
“There are therapists for everyone.” She gave a faint nod of acknowledgment. “Right.” A smirk. “It’s either back in the saddle or out on the ledge. And I think I’ve exhausted what I have to learn out on the ledge.” As he made to rise, she said, “Let me ask you a question, Mr. …”
The silence lingered. He let it.
She relented. “You say you’re here to see if Luke needs to be held accountable. Do you think he should have to pay for what he did to me? Like he would if he’d assaulted me physically?”
“I can’t punish someone based on how they make you feel.”
“Why not?”
