53. The Pianist
The Pianist
Three Months Later
The skyline winks through the windows as the apartment’s door falls shut behind me, the city’s lights guiding my way into the otherwise pitch-dark hall.
I enter to silence, to a sea of shadows, and if I weren’t so exhausted from the hours of traveling, my unease would have me turning on every light switch.
I don’t like the dark. After dropping Henri off at his new school, I want nothing more than to collapse into bed and not open my eyes again until noon.
I let go of my bags in the front entry before keying in the alarm code. The building comes with its own security, but I had them wire in a system. Just in case.
The echoes of traffic below are loud enough to be heard through the glass of the windows, even as high up as the apartment is—penthouse suite, paid in full for two years.
More glamorous than anything I’ve ever even dared to step foot into.
When I officially became Henri’s guardian, I wanted to make sure he is safe, and as comfortable as money can buy.
None of the money is mine, of course. Most of it is in a trust fund, but the monthly allowances we receive is enough to pay for a lifestyle I could only ever dream of maintaining.
A lifestyle Henri was used to. The process to become his guardian was surprisingly quick—his only other living relatives were an uncle in prison on his father’s side, and his grandparents on his mother’s side. Henri refused them, and chose me.
He helped me pick out the apartment. Those first few nights we watched movies and made pillow forts in the living room, ate so much candy until we felt sick, giggled with delirium until the sun came up.
It’s quiet without him here. Too quiet.
I told him I’d visit every weekend, even though he assured me he’d be fine. He wanted to go to boarding school. I don’t blame him—for wanting to feel some version of normal after everything.
Kicking off my shoes and leaving them in the entryway, I shuck off my coat, shake off the little bit of rain in my hair.
The thermostat says it is only half past ten, but I feel like I’ve been awake for a week straight.
Sleep hasn’t come easily. Most nights, I stare at the ceiling. I tell myself it’s because of the change—my life has flipped upside down in only a few short months. Not so long ago I was rationing takeout and waiting for a call that was supposed to come from the symphony director.
My days are filled with music now. I wasted no time calling Violet Lavigne.
I practice every day, and it hardly feels like work when it’s where I want to be, doing what I love.
Next week, she’s set me up at a lounge, nothing crazy, but it puts me in front of other notable names, who also happen to be her colleagues.
An opportunity for her to brag, she said.
After that, a solo performance in a concert hall. A ticketed performance.
Maybe it’s because my wildest dreams are coming true that I cannot find sleep.
But the headaches are gone.
And I don’t dare ruminate on what that might mean.
My steps are silent as I head to my bedroom. In a tired daze I brush my teeth, comb through my hair. Last week, I had it cut to my shoulders. The blonde ends are gone. Thought it might seem more professional.
Yet as I sat at the salon, I couldn’t help but think, would he like it?
It’s been months since the manor burned down.
For at least a week, a new segment aired every day about the death of the family, the tragic fire that killed them in their sleep.
Conveniently, none of the guests from the party have ever been interviewed, at least, not on air.
And eventually, the media stopped caring, and Henri and I were left alone.
And now, I am alone.
I try not to think about those few weeks at the manor. I try not to think about him.
No one would believe me if I told them.
That the eldest son was still alive, locked away inside, and he made me his muse. He wrote music for me. He made my dreams come true.
That he was a serial murderer, with at least six deaths to blame for. Two of them being his parents. Henri’s parents.
It’s how the Beauchenes got away with this for so long: the story sounds entirely unbelievable. Some nights I wonder if it was all some fever dream, too outrageous to even think for a second it’s true.
But when I do sleep, he is always there. Crawling over me, consuming me, setting me ablaze with his touch, his words, his promises. I always wake with too much unspent desire.
And then sometimes I think I can feel his eyes on me again.
I’m just tired. The day has been entirely too long, and now I am by myself for the first time in months. No one else is in the apartment, the security system would have alerted me otherwise—only Henri and I know the code. I am alone and I am safe.
But as I slide back the covers of my bed—
Something’s not right.
My pulse quickens before I know what’s happening.
His eyes—
There’s no way. It’s been three months.
Something winds through my hair.
“You lied to me, Mallary.” His voice slides through the dark, straight for my heart. “You said you would never run. Did you not think I would find you?”