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Jade gasps in mock outrage. “I would never.”
“You’re the one who listens to all the murdery podcasts and watches true crime shows,” I point out. “Tell me those haven’t given you a few ideas.”
“I mean, everyone in those shows usually gets caught, and that’s the only reason we know how they did it; they get caught.”
“Did you talk to Rebecca about it?” Emma asks, getting us back on track.
“Well, she brought it up in front of him, so I couldn’t very well say, ‘Please don’t send me on this tour because I might murder my colleague.’ He was right there.”
“You’ve also said he seems to be the most competent person in his department, right? So shouldn’t it be a good thing that he’s going to do the seminars with you?” I point out.
“Competent, yes. Stick up his ass, also yes. But he’s not doing the presentation with me; he’s translating it. And I asked Rebecca why we would even need a translator when so many people speak English anyway, and she said that it won’t just be contemporaries there, but patients and their families too.”
“Speaking of which, how are your Spanish lessons going?” Tessa asks.
Jade brightens. “Wonderfully.”
“Could you do the presentation in Spanish yourself?” Emma asks, and Jade’s face falls.
“No. I wish. But I’m just not that fluent yet.” She props her chin on her hand. “Too bad it’s not in Mandarin. I could probably do that. Maybe I should pitch an Asia tour to Rebecca.”
The overhead lights flash and interrupt our conversation. In the back of the café is a small stage, and we’re at the closest table, all set to enjoy the front-row view of my boyfriend’s performance.
Technically it’s open mic night here, but there are only two acts tonight. Chris said he and the manager didn’t feel right asking anyone to follow his performance, so they booked a small, locally popular musician for the first act, and then Chris will play second.
While Jade outlines her travel schedule for the next few months, I glance around at the crowd. They don’t know who’s playing, so the energy is low and mellow. Lots of couples, small friend groups, and . . .
My eyes narrow on a guy against the wall. Something about him is familiar, but he’s got a hat on low, and I would remember someone with that mustache. It’s very thick and groomed and . . .
Fake. That’s a fake mustache.
Whoever it is looks right at me, and with a start, I realize it’s Alwin.
Two days after I moved—again—to Europe, Chris and I were out shopping for kitchen equipment. It did not surprise me at all that his kitchen, while lovely, was spartan, so I was elbow-deep in copper pans when Chris’s phone rang.
It was Marcus, letting Chris know that Verduistering was on hiatus indefinitely. Ram had, for the first time, voluntarily checked himself into rehab, and Alwin and June had decided that without two of their four original members, they didn’t want to keep going.
Chris was heartbroken for Alwin and June but hopeful about Ram. Time will tell.
Alwin dips his chin at me, and I flick my eyes to the stage and back.
Does Chris know?
Alwin shakes his head.
The café owner introduces the opening act. She has a keyboard and mic, and does that thing where you record and loop a small bit of music, adding layers on until she can take her hands away from the keyboard and belt out the opening lyrics.
She’s good. At the end of every song, the crowd claps, and it’s obvious that some of the people are there just to see her. The music’s a little funky, but it’s got all four of us dancing in our seats.
After five songs, the singer bows to full applause and, blushing, ducks off the stage. There’s a restlessness between sets, people getting up to get drinks or use the bathroom, even though it wasn’t a very long set.
Nerves are tickling my stomach, and I’m anxiously watching as the stagehand takes the keyboard away and makes room. My gaze flicks to Alwin again, who’s staring at the stage, lost in thought.
This time, no one introduces the singer—Chris quietly slips from the back door onto the stage, and at first, there’s a blank, hollow quiet while Chris settles the guitar into his lap and perches on the stool.
Then whispers carry, someone behind us saying, “Wait, is that . . .” and the sound of a glass being knocked over and the accompanying surprise.
Chris doesn’t say anything, just tunes his guitar quietly. The spotlight is on him, slightly brighter than the café, but lights flash randomly, and when I turn around, there are at least a dozen phones pointed at him.
