Page 71 of Widow's Walk
I couldn’t take Sinclair up there, though. Not with the threat level of what occurred at the underground auction. Not after everything we’ve been through. She doesn’t know it yet, but she will not be leaving the confines of the estate for quite some time.
But I had an idea.
Her scent. Comfort. Familiarity.
I sent over a box of her recently worn clothing and instructed the men to line the traps with it. Something to entice the small beast.
Turns out, that’s all she needed the entire time. Reassurance of returning to the one soul she trusts.
With a carrier in hand, occupied by a peeved cat hissing and planning to kill me, I enter the house. As soon as I do, I halt.
Music.
Delicate notes curling through the air, ghosting down the staircase.
“I want everyone out,” I say to Hawk, who has been promoted to being head of security at my estate, without looking at him.
No one else gets this moment. It’s far too precious to be shared. Not the sound of her playing. Not the glimpse into something so raw and pure it makes my chest ache. I want to kill those who heard it before me.
Another piece of Sinclair, and I will not have it shared with anyone. I want it all for myself.
I take the stairs carefully. Not to be discreet, but not to taint the most ethereal sound with even a footstep.
My hand furls around the handle of the crate as I near the bottom of the attic stairs in a daze. I wasn’t sure if she could even play the piano, or if it was just decoration in her old bedroom. But I should’ve known.
It suits her. The control in her fingers. The emotion laced in every chord. It’s her voice, her escape, the only language I’ve yet to hear her speak without any walls.
I remain at the stairs landing, afraid to move. Scared she will stop as soon as she senses my presence.
“Shhh,” I try hushing the cat when she starts meowing, but it only makes her meow louder. As if she knows exactly how to spoil this moment for me.
The music stops, and I want to strangle the being for ruining it. Instead, I drop to one knee and open the crate to release her. She doesn’t hesitate. She bolts right up the stairs as if she already knows exactly where to go.
Sinclair’s audible gasp echoes, and quick footsteps follow as the two reunite. I give them their moment. But when I hear her soft, warm, and impossibly sweet voice, I can’t stay away.
I ascend quietly, as if it were sacrilege. Interrupting something sacred.
I’m not prepared for what I see. Sinclair on the floor, curled around the cat, her face nuzzled into thick fur, her expression radiant. Not smirking. Not smug.
Smiling.
I swear I can visibly see her now whole, and I envy the cat for being that missing piece of her.
She suddenly notices me, and just like a bucket of ice water, the walls are back up. The dry smirk tugs at her lips, and her voice morphs into that familiar flippancy.
“I hope it wasn’t too much trouble,” she mutters her version of gratitude.
I don’t answer right away. I only stare. No matter how hard she tries to play it cool, I now know what lies behind the façade. I caught a glimpse, and I won’t soon forget it.
“It was worth it,” I say, and her eyes dart to mine. Surprised by the authentic softness of my tone. “So, youdoplay.”
She shrugs, occupying herself with petting the cat. “A little.”
I snort. I may not know much about music, but I do know that what I heard was extraordinary. “You’re good.”
Just when I think she won’t comment, she says, “I taught myself, starting when I was like six. Something to help disappear without leaving the room.”
An escape.
