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“I’m surprised to see you here,” he said. “I heard about your recent accident and didn’t expect you until next week.”
I nodded. “Yes, well, I was anxious about piano. Worried I’d forgotten how to play.”
And Ben taught me I should just face things head on because sometimes worry was just fear trying to hold me back.
Director Fields’s eyebrows arched, my eyes automatically following their movement because they looked like thick gray caterpillars perched above his eyes. “Forgotten how to play?” he admonished. “You are the most gifted pianist we’ve had here at Westbrook for many years. There is no forgetting how to play.”
“Well, when you forget everything else, the possibility seems very real,” I mused.
Something in the air shifted, and the back of my neck prickled.
“What do you mean?”
He was looking at me sort of strangely, and it made me uncomfortable to be partly turned away from him. Bracing my hand on top of the bench, I scooted around. His eyes slid down to the cast on my foot, which was partially concealed by the loose sweatpants I wore. They were Ben’s.
I refused to cut up any of my pants to make room for this cast, but Ben had no such issue. Even though the hem was loose already (which was the entire point of me wearing his pants), he still sliced through the red fabric partway up the calf to make even more room. When I told him he was insane, he kissed me and forbade the pants to be even a little too tight on my healing bone.
It made me wonder what would happen if someone dared to do something he’d forbidden. Which, frankly, was becoming a long list.
Director Fields cleared his throat, eyes sliding from my cast to the crutches propped against the side of the piano. I didn’t particularly like the way his appraisal of my injuries made me feel. Somehow weak. Defenseless.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I assumed the administration informed you of my injuries. They did all my other professors.”
“Well, I’ve been quite busy running this department, and I don’t make it my business to meddle in student affairs,” he lamented, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his light-tan tweed pants. They perfectly matched the tweed jacket he wore over a plain white dress shirt with the collar open at the throat.
I wasn’t sure how me falling down the stairs and getting amnesia was considered an affair, but okay.
“I have amnesia,” I told him, then reconsidered. “Well, had.”
His spine straightened, hands coming out of his pockets. “Amnesia?”
I supposed I couldn’t blame him for his sudden curiosity. I mean, amnesia was curious.
I nodded. “When I fell, I not only broke my ankle but hit my head, and it caused retrograde amnesia.”
“I had no idea,” he murmured, gaze sharpening. “So you don’t remember what happened?”
“No,” I confirmed, once again searching my memory for any sort of hint. Once again, I came up empty. “No one really knows because I was by myself when they found me.”
“A terrible thing,” he said, making a sympathetic noise.
Suddenly, I wondered. “You didn’t hear anything that night?”
“Me?” he said, incredulous. “Why would I have heard?”
“Because I fell in this building. In the stairwell,” I explained, pointing in the direction of the stairs. “You did just say how you’re always here.” Wrinkling my nose, I thought. “I think I was at orchestra practice that night. Do you remember seeing me?”
“Well, I’m not sure. What night was that again?” he asked.
I told him.
“Hm, well, I do believe you were there. I don’t think we had any absentee members that evening. You know how I frown upon missing rehearsals.”
I nodded. “You didn’t notice anything strange? I didn’t seem… off?”
“Off?” he repeated as though he didn’t even understand the term. Sighing, he shook his head. “I just told you, Miss Park, I do not meddle in my students’ business. I only focus on the music.”
“So it must have happened after rehearsal ended,” I surmised, ignoring his huffing as I stared across the empty auditorium. As I did, an ominous sense of foreboding crawled over me, pungent panic smacking me right in the ribs and making it hard to draw in breath.
