“Again, sweetheart.” Ryder smiles at her as she sets down her bow. “One more time.”
“I hate practicing.”
“I’m aware.” He laughs softly. “But even the best have to do it.”
“Can we go swimming after this?”
“Depends on how well you play this time. Again, Adeline. Again.”
“Okay…” She positions her bow against the violin, and the frame suddenly stops. Then, it returns to the beginning.
Setting it down, I look up at the cursive quotes that are painted on the walls.
“Without music, life would be a mistake.” “Violin strings sing beautiful things.” “I am the best violinist in the world.”
“I picked all those.” Adeline plops onto an oversized chair. “I painted them, too.”
“They’re very beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she says. “My dad bought the letters when he was on a business trip to Italy. I wanted to go, but it was only for his college students.”
I blink. “His college students?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “He teaches at Montlake University. Don’t you know that?”
I don’t say a word.
“Here you are, Miss Jane.” Hannah enters the room, handing me the coffee I never asked for. She walks over to Adeline’s bed and pulls back the covers. “I’ll bring you lunch after you nap for at least an hour. You know the rules.”
Adeline sighs, but she doesn’t protest. She takes off her shoes and slips into the bed.
Hannah disappears, and I take one last look around.
“Thank you for showing me your room,” I say. “I’ll see you when you wake up.”
“Hannah dropped something, Miss Jane.” She points to the floor. “She’s super type-A about keeping stuff clean, so I should run and give it back to her.”
“No, I’ll do it.” I pick it up. “You get some sleep.”
Without another word, she turns off the lights and rolls over.
I shut the door and start to fold the napkin, but the tiny words on it catch my eye.
My father owes him a debt, and I have to work until it’s paid … I suggest you throw this away & never ask me anything else.
I also suggest that you don’t get into the town car when we land. Just walk away… if you can.
What the…
“Ah, Miss Jane!” She’s suddenly at my side, holding out a plate. “Lunch is now served.”
I’m too unnerved by her fake smile to speak.
“How does filet mignon, steamed broccoli, and a side of garden greens sound?” She waits for approval.
I glance at the plate and notice she’s drizzled letters around the plate’s edge with balsamic glaze.
DO NOT TRUST MISTER R. EVER.
