Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
It takes several blinks to process this peculiar situation.
“Have you heard of knocking?” the man asks without missing a note, his body gently swaying to the rhythm and direction of his hands dancing across the keys.
It takes me a long moment to answer because … a man is playing a grand piano in a garage. “Sorry. But I’m looking for Eloise Owen.”
“She lives in the house,” he replies in a clipped voice.
“Yes, but I knocked, and she didn’t answer.”
“Then she’s not home, or she’s dead,” he says without emotion, which is odd since he’s playing Alexander Scriabin’s “Piano Sonata No. 9,” quite possibly one of the most moving classical piano pieces ever written.
“Is that her car?”
“It is not.” He glances over his shoulder, fingers coming to an abrupt halt. The man with short, grizzled hair and a clean-shaven face inspects me momentarily. He defies all stereotypes regarding aging men—a secret brotherhood of George Clooneys and Hugh Jackmans.
I step inside the garage and close the door to keep the heat out since a window air conditioner blasts cold air into the musty space.
The man swivels toward me on the bench, squaring his body in gray cargo pants and a tight black T-shirt. Tattoos cover his sinewy arms, and distrust lurks in his amber eyes. I’m not sure I've ever seen anyone with that eye color.
“She has a key to my brother’s house.” I jab my thumb in the direction of John’s house.
“I’m not her keeper.”
“No?” I slant my head to the side, feeling a little surge of attitude in response to his helpfulness. “Well, I didn’t say you were. I heard the piano, and since she didn’t answer her door, I thought maybe she was in her garage. I assume this is her garage?”
“I’m renting it.” He folds his hands between his spread legs.
“I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do.” No detectable emotion accompanies his candid response.
“Yes.” I chuckle and shake my head at his clipped responses. “I suppose I do. Would you, by any chance, have a cell phone number for her? I only have what I assume is a landline.”
“I don’t know if she has a cell phone.” He crosses his arms.
Pressing my lips together, I nod several times. “I’ll wait in my car.”
“Your family was pretty fucked-up. Sorry for your loss,” he says as I open the door.
Three suicides. I suppose that qualifies as “pretty fucked-up.” What does one call a guy playing Scriabin on a grand piano in an old garage? He might qualify as fucked-up too. “Perhaps you’re right,” I say. “I’d call it unfortunate, like Alexander Scriabin’s death.”
He narrows his eyes.
“I certainly hope anyone who can play Scriabin like you would be well-read on the composer's history.”
“Do you play?”
“I was a music theory professor.”
“Was?” His lips twist.
“Long story. Sorry to have disturbed you.” I turn.
“I can let you into the house.”
“You have access to their house?” I squint. Why would Eloise give someone renting her garage a key to my brother’s house?
“Sure.” He retrieves a leather pouch from his car.
“Did you know Lynn and Steven?” I ask when he steps past me at the door.
“I was aware of the boy.” His heavy steps carry him toward the house through the weed-infested grass littered with sticks snapping beneath his boots.
I’m not sure what that means.
“Can I ask why you’re living in Eloise’s garage?” I jog to catch up to him.
“Does it matter?”
“Just making conversation.”
He stops at the front door and unzips the leather pouch.
“Wait. I thought you had a key,” I say as he squats at the door and proceeds to pick the lock.
“I said I could let you into the house. You asked if I had access. I said, ‘Sure.’” He works multiple lock picks into the deadbolt keyhole.
It takes him less than a minute to unlock the door. When he turns the handle, letting it ease open on its whiny hinges, I feel a heavy wave of emotion roll over me. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I swear I hear Steven’s laughter and Lynn’s soft hum that she made every time she nodded her head in agreement. I can see my brother on a ladder, hanging blinds. I can smell vanilla and brown sugar from Mom’s chocolate chip cookie recipe that Lynn used to distract Steven from getting into all of the boxes before they unpacked.
This is harder than I imagined, and I haven’t stepped foot into the house yet.
The zip of the leather pouch silences the whispers from the past. “Do you pick many locks?” I use him as a distraction to cross the threshold like it’s no big deal like I wasn’t paralyzed seconds earlier.
“I usually kick in a door if I need access and don’t have a key.” He smirks, focusing on the pouch for a few more seconds before lifting his gaze to mine. “I assumed you’d prefer the door remain in one piece for resale value.”