“Very good.”
“And your name when you perform?”
“Miss Ivy or Miss Adeline Ivy,” she says. “Never Rochester, except for paperwork. And with you.”
I nod, but my chest constricts the way it always does when we reach this part.
Some fathers teach their daughters how to ride bikes. I taught mine how to disappear.
We step out of my car and walk with her to the entrance. Her instructor is already waiting at the front door, smiling eagerly.
“Your talent truly precedes you, Miss Ivy,” she says. “I can’t believe I get to work with one of the best young violinists in the world.”
Flattered, Adeline blushes and steps forward, following her new teacher’s lead.
Halfway down the hall, she turns back and waves to me.
“See you back at home, Dad.” Her smile is wider than I’ve seen in weeks.
“See you then, Adeline.” I wait for her to disappear around the corner before turning away.
Three of my men stay behind—one posted near the entrance, one near the cameras, one trailing the halls just out of sight.
She’ll be safe here if I handle things this way.
She has to be.
Later That Afternoon
Blueand red lights dance across the warehouse siding, refracting off the slick asphalt and the black water curling at the edge of the pier. I roll the car to a slow stop but leave the engine running, letting the low rumble fill the silence as I take in the scene.
EMTs flank the entrance, their gurneys untouched.
Police are clustered near the rusted freezer I should’ve replaced years ago, their postures tense but unconvinced. One of them crouches to lift the lid. Another speaks into a radio, his voice tight with protocol.
It doesn’t take a genius to know what they’re hoping to find.
Someone has undoubtedly called the sour smell in—someone who thought they were doing the right thing.
The authorities won’t find anything, though.
Austin Blaine’s body is long gone.
Only the faint scent of his death remains.
I step out of my car and lean against the door, lighting a cigar as I study the scene.
Behind me, the sound of heels begins to echo off the pavement—slow and deliberate, each step more theatrical than the last.
I recognize the rhythm before I see her.
Grace Poole has a tendency to strut slowly as if that’ll add to her lack of sex appeal.
“I bet you know what’s going on out there,” she says from behind. “That’s why you’re watching, isn’t it?”
“No, I just happened to be driving by.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” She moves closer, five feet away from me, as if she’s waiting for me to turn around and face her.
