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I jump into action.
“Nobody leaves the building,” I say to Fiona. “Not a single soul goes in or out until the police get here and can look at everything. And clear this room, and Cooper’s. I don’t want anybody contaminating anything.”
I don’t wait for a response and stalk down the hall to my office. Every single person I pass on the way is a suspect in my mind, and it takes every ounce of control I have not to jump into interrogation mode.
For some reason, I’m not worried or hurt Cooper blamed me. It makes sense. We had just argued. Of course, I’d be at the top of his list when he tried to figure out who would do that to him. Not that it doesn’t bother me, because it does. But I understand it. I’d probably think the same thing if I were in his shoes. I am prime suspect number one.
When the police finally arrive, it’s no surprise they aren’t interested in what happened to Cooper’s guitar. They have much more important things to deal with. The importance of anything is relative, and to them, this is merely childish vandalism.
Their lack of interest is because most people in the building are juveniles, there is no security footage to review, and no witnesses have come forward voluntarily with information. The amount of legwork required to investigate the destruction of a fairly old guitar is disproportionate to the item’s value. But, they take a report and gave me a copy to give Cooper if he wants to file an insurance claim.
“It’s nothing personal, you understand,” the officer says, shutting his report binder. “This is pretty tame for this part of the city, to be honest. There’s not much we can do about this kind of crime. Though, from the looks of it, it seems pretty personal. Mr. Davies might want to look closer at his inner circle.”
I nod, disheartened. I don’t know what I expected. Actually, I do. I wanted a full-blown investigation where no stone went unturned, a SWAT team was deployed, every single person in L.A. was questioned, and some super-sophisticated technology was used to find and name the perpetrator in a matter of minutes.
Unrealistic? Sure. But my heart is in the right place. I hate this for Cooper. Something like this feels like such an intrusive violation. I can’t imagine what he’s going through.
When the police leave, I talk briefly with Fiona and make a few calls to Board members who were notified of the incident to let them know the status. I cancel the rest of the classes for the day. No one is in a very creative mood, and maybe a day off will do us all some good after the emotions of the morning.
In the piano studio, I look closer at the guitar as if I can figure out the mystery by examining it. I don’t know its history, but the parts that are unharmed look well-loved and cared for. I take the pieces out of the case and carefully lay them on the floor. Maybe it’s like a puzzle that can be put back together somehow. I'm struck by how one crack leaves an instrument forever changed. It will never be the same again.
Just like one act of betrayal forever alters a heart. It changes a person. A family. A world.
I trail my finger over the jagged edges, wincing as a splinter pricks my skin. A slight sting compared to the lacerations on my soul. My ability to trust and love openly was damaged by people I trusted. But, like this guitar, I'm irreparably scarred.
And now, Cooper is too.
I understand his devastation. This guitar was part of himself, and now that’s been violated. Some betrayals cut too deep to ever fully heal.
Kind of like my heart. How poetic.
* * *
When I arrive at Cooper’s house mid-afternoon, I worry when he doesn’t answer right away. Part of me wonders if he went somewhere else when he left the Foundation. The supermodel’s house, perhaps? Or he’s on the other side of the door, saw it was me, and doesn’t want to answer. All of these are legitimate possibilities as far as my crazy imagination goes.
The door swings open, and the sight of Cooper, wet, in nothing but a towel, steals my breath away. My eyes avoid the darkening bruises and are drawn to the artwork decorating the canvas of his skin. I try to take it all in at once because I don’t know where to look first. I’ve seen the tattoos on his arms and hands since those aren’t usually covered, but the ones on his chest and stomach are new to me, and I can’t help but stare at the patchwork of ink.
It’s beautiful.
“What are you doing here?” he demands, snapping me back to reality.
“Can I come in?” I ask. I don’t want to just give him the police report and leave. We need to have a real conversation.
His light eyes pierce through me, looking for a reason to turn me away, I’m sure, but he must not find one. He shrugs a shoulder and turns back into the house, leaving the door open, so I follow him in.
He pads across the wood floor of the living room to the hallway, water droplets falling in his wake as he goes. “I’ll be right back,” he mutters, not looking back at me.
Okay. This is going to be more complicated than I thought.
I sit on the couch and take in the house, noticing it hasn’t reverted to the mess that was here when we came in on Saturday.
Maybe he kept it clean for the supermodel.
Stop it.
Cooper comes back into the living room wearing worn jeans that sit low on his hips and pulling a T-shirt over his head that hugs him like a second skin. My fingers itch to trace every muscle that flexes as he moves, and I have to make a tight fist to keep from reaching out to him.
“So, what are you doing here?” he asks again, falling into a chair across from me. As far from me as he can be in the same room, I note.
