Melody's Silence Pt. 02

From Part 1

A note.

A chill crawled up my spine. I bent down, fingers shaking as I picked it up. The paper was creased, hurriedly folded, the ink smudged. And the handwriting--

Melody's.

My throat went dry as I unfolded it, heart hammering.

____________________

If anything happens to me--I didn't run. I knew.

M.

Username: MMcCall109

Password: Eris831

_____________________

The words blurred in my vision. My pulse roared in my ears.

Melody didn't vanish. She left a warning.

Now Part 2

---------------------------------------------

I found her.

Or at least, I found something.

My breath hitched, the cold cement pressing against my legs as I sat frozen, the note trembling in my hands. The words blurred--not from the dim light, but from the force of my heartbeat slamming in my skull.

If anything happens to me--I didn't run. I knew.

Six years of exile. Six years of silence. And now, just like that, Melody was speaking to me from the past.

A username. A password. A message she had hidden where no one would find it.

Except I did.

My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out Marisha and Dexter shifting behind me. The world had narrowed down to this note, this moment, this impossible, gut-wrenching truth.

She hadn't just disappeared. She was running.

From what--or who--I still didn't know.

"Alex." Marisha's voice cut through the static in my head, steady but careful, like she was talking someone down from a ledge. "What is that?"

I forced my lips to move, my voice hoarse. "It's from Melody."

Silence.

Dexter stepped closer, his boots scuffing against the concrete. "Where the hell did that come from?"

"The record sleeve." My fingers trembled as I turned the paper over, as if there might be more hidden beneath the ink. "Miles Davis. Kind of Blue. It was her favorite." I swallowed, trying to clear the lump in my throat. "She must have put it there before she--"

Before she disappeared.

Before she was taken.

Before she was silenced.

Dexter's expression darkened. "Or before someone made her disappear."

I looked up at him, my breath catching. I knew he was right.

Marisha crouched beside me, her dark eyes scanning the note. Her fingers were steady, but I caught the sharp intake of breath.

"You said you sent all of Melody's things to her parents after she went missing."

I nodded. "I did."

"Then why was this still here?"

My stomach turned.

Because someone made sure it stayed buried.

Dexter stepped forward, his usual skepticism replaced with something colder. "This isn't just a forgotten scrap of paper, Brooks. This is her telling us she was in danger." He met my gaze, his tone pressing. "And you're telling me you had no idea?"

I clenched my jaw. "I didn't even know that note existed."

Marisha's grip on the note tightened, her expression unreadable. "A username and a password," she murmured, turning the paper over as if more secrets were hidden beneath the ink. "This isn't just a warning--this is a key."

Dexter exhaled sharply. "And a goddamn breadcrumb trail." His eyes flicked to me, narrowing. "If she left this for you, why the hell didn't you find it sooner?"

I let out a bitter laugh. "I don't know, Dexter. Maybe because six years ago, I was too busy being interrogated by the entire city of Boston to search for cryptic notes inside my vinyl collection."

He didn't look impressed.

Marisha, however, was still staring at the paper, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"You've had this unit locked up all this time?" she asked.

I nodded.

"And you never came back?"

"Not once."

Her brows furrowed, and for the first time since we started this mess, I saw something close to doubt flicker in her expression--not doubt about me, but about the case itself.

She turned to Dexter. "We need to find out what that login is for."

"No," I said before I even realized the word had left my mouth. My fingers curled tighter around the note. "I need to find out."

Dexter scoffed. "That's not how this works, Brooks."

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right. Evidence. Just like my entire life was evidence when the world decided I was guilty before the police even finished their investigation." I shook my head, the anger flaring hot in my chest. "You want to bring this back to the FBI, go ahead. But if Melody left this for me, she wanted me to find out the truth."

Marisha's gaze locked onto mine. "And if the truth is something you don't want to find?"

I swallowed hard.

Too late for that.

Dexter sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ." Then, to Marisha, "We need to move. Now."

She nodded. "But we're not doing this here."

I tightened my grip on the note, my pulse hammering.

Melody had known.

And if I wanted answers, I had just made myself a bigger target than ever before.

I shot to my feet, the walls of the storage unit suddenly too close, the air too thin. My mind raced, replaying every detail of that night, every conversation, every moment leading up to the day Melody disappeared. Had she tried to tell me something? Had she wanted me to find this back then?

Had someone else known?

Marisha and Dexter exchanged a glance.

"We need to find out what that login is for," Marisha said, standing up. There was urgency in her voice now.

"No," I said before I even realized the word had left my mouth. My fingers curled tighter around the note. "I need to find out."

Dexter scoffed. "That's not how this works, Brooks. That's evidence--"

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right. Evidence. Just like my entire life was evidence when the world decided I was guilty before the police even finished their investigation." I shook my head, the anger flaring hot in my chest. "You want to bring this back to the FBI, go ahead. But if Melody left this for me, she wanted me to find out the truth."

I turned, stepping out of the storage unit. The cold Boston air hit my face, but it did nothing to settle the storm inside me.

Marisha followed. "Alex, you don't know what you're walking into."

I stopped in my tracks and turned to her.

"Neither do you."

For a second, we just stared at each other. Her eyes searched mine like she was trying to figure out if I was reckless or just desperate. Maybe I was both.

But I didn't care.

I had wasted six years waiting for someone else to find Melody.

Now, it was my turn.

I shoved the storage unit door closed, my pulse still hammering from the weight of what I had just uncovered. My fingers clenched tighter around Melody's note, the edges crumpling beneath my grip.

Dexter let out a sharp breath. "We need to move. Now."

Marisha didn't hesitate. She took my arm--not roughly, but firm enough to snap me out of my thoughts. "You're not thinking straight, Alex."

I jerked free. "I'm thinking just fine."

"Then you know standing here is a bad idea," Dexter cut in. His eyes flicked toward the entrance of the facility, scanning the darkened corridor beyond. "If someone buried that note, they won't want it uncovered."

A shiver crawled up my spine. He was right. The unit had been locked up for years, untouched. But the note--the note had been waiting. And now, I had it.

A sharp sound echoed outside. A car door slamming.

Marisha's posture shifted, her fingers twitching toward her weapon. "Move."

We slipped out of the storage unit, shutting the metal door behind us. The hallway felt tighter than before, every shadow stretching too long. My breath came fast, but I kept moving.

Down the corridor. Past the rows of steel doors. Out the back entrance.

Into the night.

The air outside was sharp with cold, but it did nothing to cool the fire raging inside me. My fingers were still clenched around the note in my pocket as we stepped out of the storage unit, the night stretching dark and quiet around us.

Dexter led the way toward the car, his usual confidence muted, his focus turned inward. Marisha stuck close, her expression unreadable, her mind no doubt already pulling apart the implications of what we had just found.

The past was no longer a question mark. Melody had left a trail--a warning--and I had walked straight into it.

A sudden hush settled over the alley. Even the distant hum of traffic felt muted.

I felt it before I heard it--the wrongness in the air, the prickle at the back of my neck.

Then--

CRACK.

The night exploded.

I barely had time to register the sound before Dexter grunted and dropped to one knee, a curse tearing from his lips.

"Dexter!" Marisha's voice was sharp, urgent.

Instinct kicked in--but too late.

CRACK--CRACK.

The second shot whizzed past my head, shattering a metal lockbox near the storage unit door. The sharp scent of gunpowder hit my nose, acrid and suffocating.

"Move!" Marisha barked, yanking me backward just as another shot rang out. My shoulder slammed against the cold metal door.

Where the hell were they shooting from?

I risked a glance toward the alley's entrance--nothing but deep shadows between parked cars and dumpsters. They had a clear line of sight but were staying hidden.

Dexter, grimacing, pressed a bloodied hand against his thigh. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. "That's a graze. I'm fine."

He wasn't lying down, though. He was pulling his sidearm.

CRACK.

Another shot slammed into the metal frame near us.

Dexter didn't hesitate.

He fired back.

The flash of his gun lit up the alley in brief, jagged bursts as he returned fire in controlled shots--two rounds, shift position, two more.

Marisha took cover beside him, scanning for movement. "They're moving!"

Shit.

I risked another glance. The muzzle flash from their shots gave them away--someone was firing from behind a parked van, another from the shadows near a dumpster.

Two shooters. Maybe more.

"We can't stay here!" I hissed.

Dexter gritted his teeth. "No shit, genius."

Marisha whirled, sighted, and fired, aiming for the shooter near the van. A metallic ping rang out as her shot grazed the vehicle's fender, sending the attacker ducking back.

A third shot came from the opposite side of the alley--this one low, angled, meant to pin us.

Marisha spun and fired again, forcing them back.

"We need an exit!" she snapped.

I turned, scanning fast--there!

A faint glow--an EXIT sign near the back of the storage facility.

"I see it!" I pointed. "Go!"

Dexter grunted, shifting to fire another two sharp shots at the van before staggering toward me.

Marisha covered him, firing at the dumpster shooter. I grabbed Dexter's arm and pulled him along.

Halfway there--

CRACK--

A bullet slammed into a metal beam inches from my head. I ducked, skidding behind a stack of old storage crates. My chest heaved.

They were closing in.

Dexter turned and fired a blind shot, forcing them to pause.

"They're trying to box us in!" Marisha snapped.

I didn't think. I reacted. Snatching a metal pole from the ground, I hurled it into the darkness. It clanged against a dumpster--just enough noise to throw them off for half a second.

That's all we needed.

Marisha grabbed Dexter and shoved him forward. "GO!"

We bolted.

I reached the emergency exit first and slammed into it with my shoulder. The rusted hinges groaned, but the door gave way--revealing a narrow alley on the other side.

"Clear!" I called out.

Marisha and Dexter stumbled through behind me. I yanked the door shut, bracing against it as my breath came in sharp gasps.

Then--

Silence.

No more gunfire.

Just the pounding of my own heart.

Marisha's grip on her gun didn't relax. "They let us go."

Dexter exhaled sharply. "Or they're circling around."

I swallowed hard. She was right. Whoever they were, they weren't amateurs.

And they sure as hell weren't done with us.

We slipped into the alley, keeping to the shadows. My heart hammered, my fingers still curled tight around Melody's note in my pocket.

Someone had tried to stop us.

Which meant we were close.

And I wasn't backing down.

Not now. Not ever.

The alley was quiet--too quiet. Every nerve in my body was still on edge, my pulse thrumming in my ears as we crouched against the cold brick wall. The air smelled of damp asphalt and garbage, but none of that mattered.

Someone had just tried to kill us.

Or had they?

Marisha kept her gun drawn, her sharp eyes scanning the alleyway, waiting for movement. Dexter leaned against the wall, his breath coming short and sharp, his fingers still pressed against his leg.

But something about the attack didn't sit right.

"They had us in their sights," Marisha muttered, holstering her gun but staying on high alert. "And yet we're still breathing."

I wiped sweat and blood from my brow, the realization sinking in. "They could've dropped me with that first shot."

Dexter let out a rough breath, shifting his weight. "They weren't here to kill us."

Marisha's jaw tightened. "No. They wanted to see what we found."

My stomach twisted. The note.

"They knew we were close," I said, my voice thick with something between anger and fear. "And they want to control what happens next."

Marisha didn't disagree.

"We need to get you patched up," Marisha said, her voice firm but calm.

Dexter scoffed. "It's only a graze, Baxter."

I wasn't convinced. The blood had already soaked through his pant leg.

"We can't take any chances," I said. Without thinking, I reached for my sleeve and ripped a strip of fabric from my shirt. The sound was sharp in the quiet, but I didn't hesitate.

I crouched beside Dexter and tied the makeshift bandage around his leg, keeping it tight. His jaw tensed as I secured it, but he didn't complain.

Marisha raised an eyebrow. "Not bad," she murmured, clearly impressed.

I exhaled, my fingers still shaking from the adrenaline. "Yeah, well, I've spent six years getting good at patching things up."

Dexter gave a dry chuckle. "You pick this up playing trombone?"

I smirked, shaking my head. "Nah. You don't last long in Paris without learning how to handle a few rough nights."

Marisha let out a quiet huff that was almost amusement, but her focus never wavered. "We can't go back to the car. They're watching."

Dexter nodded. "Then we call it in."

He pulled out his phone, grimacing as he shifted his weight. He pressed a number and put the call on speaker.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"This is FBI Special Agent Dexter Marshall," he said, his voice sharp and professional despite the pain. "Officer down. We're at the Boston Storage Depot on Lowell Street. Shots fired. Unknown assailants. I need immediate backup and medical assistance."

The operator's tone changed instantly. "Copy that, Agent. Units are en route. Can you confirm your status?"

"Non-life-threatening injury, but I'm compromised," Dexter said. "I've got one civilian and one agent with me. We're in an alley behind the storage unit. We'll stay put."

"Understood. Stay on the line if possible."

Dexter hung up. "ETA is probably five minutes. We just have to lay low until they get here."

I swallowed hard, shifting my weight against the wall. The idea of sitting here, vulnerable, waiting, made my skin crawl.

Marisha's grip tightened on her gun. "If they come before the cops do, we won't have five minutes."

I clenched my fists. "Then we better hope we're not the only ones playing for time."

The alley stretched around us, dark and uncertain.

The waiting began.

The alley stretched ahead, dark and uncertain, every passing second stretching like a wire pulled too tight. My breath came in slow, measured draws, but my fingers still twitched with the urge to move, to do something other than sit in this freezing, exposed corridor of shadows.

Marisha kept her back against the wall, scanning the narrow passageway. The dim glow of a streetlamp barely reached us, casting jagged, fractured shapes against the brick.

Dexter shifted with a sharp exhale, wincing as he adjusted his injured leg. "If they were coming back, they'd have done it already," he muttered.

"Or they're waiting for the right moment," Marisha countered.

I swallowed hard, trying to push down the weight pressing on my chest. The cold night air did nothing to steady me. My fingers curled tighter in my pockets, pressing against Melody's note. The paper felt thin, fragile--too fragile for something that had just flipped my entire world upside down.

Another minute passed.

And another.

Then--

The sound of approaching sirens filled the air, growing louder with each passing second. Red and blue lights flashed across the alley walls, bouncing off the wet pavement like something out of a bad dream.

I exhaled, forcing my hands to unclench. Help was here.

But the moment I saw the first squad car roll up, I knew it wouldn't be that simple.

Boston PD moved fast, marking off the storage unit with crime scene tape, officers sweeping the area with flashlights, searching for bullet casings, checking the surrounding buildings for any sign of the shooters.

They wouldn't find anything. Whoever had fired on us was long gone.

An officer in a dark winter jacket approached. Mid-forties, short-cropped hair, a no-nonsense expression. Detective Sean Ridley.

Marisha stiffened beside me. Dexter, still leaning against the wall, let out a breath through his nose.

"Baxter. Marshall." Ridley's gaze flicked over them before landing on me. "Brooks."

The way he said my name told me everything I needed to know.

I wasn't just a witness to him.

I was still the guy who walked away from the biggest scandal in the city and came back just in time for more trouble.

Ridley nodded toward the alley. "Ambulance is on its way. You'll get checked out at the scene." He barely glanced at Dexter's leg before continuing, "But I need statements. Now."

Marisha was already stepping forward. "We were fired upon by an unknown shooter. No visual ID. They were positioned somewhere outside the storage facility, likely waiting for us to exit."

Ridley jotted something down. "And what exactly were you three doing at the storage unit in the first place?"

Dexter spoke up before Marisha could. "Official FBI business. You'll get our full report."

Ridley's expression didn't shift. "Uh-huh." Then he turned to me. "And you?"

I met his stare, my shoulders tight. "I was retrieving personal belongings."

He lifted an eyebrow. "That's all?"

I didn't blink. "That's all."

For a long moment, Ridley just studied me, like he was waiting for me to flinch. I didn't.

Then he sighed, closing his notebook. "Baxter, Marshall--you're free to go once paramedics check you out. Brooks?" His tone changed, sharpening. "You need to come with us."

Marisha's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"

Ridley folded his arms. "He was involved in an open investigation six years ago. Now he's back in town, gets shot at, and--coincidentally--we don't know why. That means he's answering some damn questions."

Dexter stepped forward. "We're handling this."

"Not here, you're not." Ridley's jaw tightened. "Boston PD has jurisdiction."

I clenched my fists. This was happening.

Marisha looked like she was ready to fight, but I knew it wouldn't change a damn thing. The moment those bullets started flying, I became Boston PD's problem again.

"Don't," I muttered under my breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her jaw tightened.

A uniformed officer moved toward me, gesturing to the waiting squad car.

I couldn't let them take the note.

The proof Melody left--the only thing I had to hold on to.

Before I could second-guess it, I reached into my pocket and, with a quick flick of my wrist, slipped the folded paper into Marisha's hand.

She stiffened but didn't react, keeping her expression unreadable.

Then I turned back to Ridley. "Let's go."

The officer led me toward the police car. The door opened.

I slid inside.

The cold metal cage of the back seat snapped shut behind me.

Boston had me again.

The ride to the station was silent, but the weight pressing against my chest wasn't. I sat in the back of the squad car, my wrists free but my future anything but. The city lights blurred past the window--too familiar, too close--each one a reminder of everything I thought I had left behind.

The streets weren't just streets. They were ghosts. The diner where Melody used to drag me for late-night pancakes. The music shop where I once lost hours browsing vinyl I couldn't afford. The intersection where we got caught in the rain, where she laughed, spun in place, and kissed me like we had all the time in the world.

Now, it felt like Boston was swallowing me whole.

The car pulled to a slow stop. A uniformed officer opened the door.

"Let's go."

I stepped out, the night air sharp against my skin, but the moment didn't last. The station doors swallowed me in one seamless motion--through the front desk, past murmuring officers who stole quick glances in my direction, down a corridor where the air grew heavier with every step.

A door swung open ahead.

The walls were dull, gray, and suffocating. The kind of room designed to wear people down. No windows. Just a battered metal table, three chairs, and a camera in the corner, its red light blinking like a silent threat.

I had been sitting in the same spot for an hour, arms crossed, staring at the walls, listening to the faint hum of voices beyond the door. They wanted me to sweat. To sit here, stewing, waiting for them to come in and hammer me with questions I had already answered six years ago.

I wasn't playing their game.

I leaned back, stretching my legs out in front of me, forcing my breathing to stay even. I wasn't that scared, desperate kid anymore.

The door finally swung open.

Two men walked in, their movements slow, deliberate. Detective Ridley--the one who pulled me in--led the way. The second guy was taller, mid-fifties, stocky, with a neatly trimmed beard and tired eyes. Detective Paul Donahue.

They sat down across from me, setting their folders on the table. Neither spoke at first.

Ridley leaned forward, hands folded. "Alex Brooks." He let my name hang in the air, like I was supposed to flinch.

I just stared at him.

Donahue sighed, flipping open a file. "Let's talk about the shooting earlier tonight."

I shrugged. "Not much to say. Someone shot at us. We didn't see who."

Ridley tilted his head. "That's a hell of a coincidence, don't you think?"

I met his gaze without blinking. "You tell me."

They spent the next thirty minutes digging into every detail of the ambush. Where I was standing. What I saw. If I had recognized anyone. If I had any enemies.

I almost laughed at that one.

The entire city had turned against me once.

Ridley tried to poke holes in my story, but there weren't any. I told them everything they already knew.

Then the shift came.

Donahue leaned back, flipping to another page in his file. "Let's go back a bit, Alex."

My jaw tightened. Here it comes.

"Six years ago, Melody McCall vanished."

The words slithered into the room like a bad omen.

I exhaled, slow and controlled, but my fingers curled into fists beneath the table. "Jesus Christ," I muttered, shaking my head. "You really gonna do this again?"

"We're just asking questions," Ridley said, his voice casual. Too casual. "Given that someone just tried to kill you, I think it's worth revisiting what happened back then."

I leaned forward, my hands flat on the table. "I already told Boston PD everything I knew. Six years ago. How many times do I have to say the same thing before you stop trying to pin this on me?"

Ridley didn't blink. "Until we get some answers."

The questioning dragged on. Two hours.

They asked the same things they had six years ago--what our relationship was like, the fights, the last time I saw her. The same old bullshit.

Every time they even hinted that I had something to do with Melody's disappearance, I pushed back. Hard.

"You think I did something to her?" I snapped at one point. "Then charge me. Otherwise, we're done here."

Donahue sighed. "You know how this works, Alex. No one's charging you--"

"Then what the hell am I still doing in this room?"

Before either of them could answer, a knock sounded at the door.

Ridley scowled, then turned his head. "What?"

The door opened, and a uniformed officer stepped in. He whispered something to Ridley, too quiet for me to catch.

Ridley's jaw tightened. He muttered a curse under his breath, then shot me one last glare before pushing up from his chair. "Stay put."

I didn't move as he left, but something was off.

Donahue gave me a long, unreadable look before sighing and following Ridley out.

I sat back, exhaling through my nose. Something just changed.

A few minutes later, Ridley returned. His face was tight, his movements stiff. And this time, he wasn't alone.

Marisha and Dexter strode in behind him.

Dexter didn't even try to hide his irritation. "We're done here."

Ridley's lips pressed into a thin line. "Brooks is still a person of interest."

Marisha crossed her arms. "He's coming with us."

For a few seconds, it looked like Ridley might push it. But something had knocked the wind out of him. Something had changed.

He turned to me, his jaw clenching. "Make yourself available for further questioning."

I held his stare for a beat. "Sure. Let me know when you come up with a real reason to bring me in."

His eyes darkened, but he didn't respond.

Marisha jerked her head toward the door. "Let's go."

I stood, rolling the tension from my shoulders before striding out of the room.

I didn't know what had just happened, but I wasn't about to ask.

Not here.

Not yet.

Boston PD had let me go.

But I had the sinking feeling this was just the beginning.

The release process was slow--deliberately so. Ridley made sure of that. I could feel his eyes on me the whole time, like he was daring me to exhale, to think I was in the clear.

I wasn't.

Marisha signed the last bit of paperwork, clipped and professional, while Dexter stood near the exit, arms crossed, his usual patience worn thin. I stayed quiet, my pulse steady, my mind anything but.

When the final signature was done, a uniformed officer gestured toward the door.

"You're free to go."

The words felt hollow. Like a stay of execution rather than a release.

I stepped outside, the night air wrapping around me, cool and indifferent. Boston stretched ahead, indifferent too. A city that had once been my home, now just a place waiting to bury me.

Marisha and Dexter led the way to the car. I followed without a word, sliding into the backseat.

The door shut with a soft click.

The ride was silent at first, the tension thick in the air. I sat in the backseat of the unmarked Bureau sedan, my arms crossed, watching the city lights blur past the window. The interrogation had left a bad taste in my mouth, but I had been expecting it.

Marisha finally broke the silence.

"What did they ask you?"

I let out a slow breath. "Same old questions," I muttered. "Started with the shooting, then they shifted back to Melody. Where was I? What was our relationship like? What were we fighting about before she disappeared?" I shook my head, jaw tight. "Like I haven't been answering that for six years."

Marisha shot me a look in the rearview mirror. "Anything different?"

I thought about it. "No. Same angles, same leading questions. They don't have anything new."

Dexter let out a low grunt from the passenger seat. "That won't stop them from trying to make something stick."

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. "Yeah, well. Nothing's changed there either."

Marisha nodded, her grip firm on the wheel. She had been tense since the moment we left the station. Something still wasn't sitting right.

Then Dexter stiffened in the passenger seat.

"We've got a tail."

My heart kicked up. I turned to look back--

"Don't." Marisha's voice was sharp, firm. "Act normal."

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep my eyes forward, even as my entire body tensed.

Marisha kept driving, her movements smooth, controlled. "How long?"

Dexter exhaled through his nose. "Two miles. Black SUV, about three cars back. No plates."

Marisha muttered a curse under her breath. "Could be Boston PD."

"Or not," Dexter said flatly.

My pulse pounded. I had expected the cops to hassle me, but this?

"What's the play?" Marisha asked.

Dexter was quiet for a second, thinking. Then he nodded to himself. "Logan Airport."

Marisha nodded immediately.

I blinked. "We catching a flight?"

Dexter smirked, shaking his head. "No. Too obvious." He glanced at me through the mirror. "But an airport is a nightmare for anyone trying to follow us. Security cameras everywhere. Tight checkpoints. Too many people. It'll force them to back off."

I exhaled, my body still tight. "So what, we just stroll into Terminal B and grab a coffee?"

Dexter didn't answer right away. Then he turned to Marisha. "Garage. I'll drop you two off at the entrance, then I'll drive out. If they're really following us, they'll follow me."

Marisha nodded. "And if they don't?"

"Then you'll know we've got more than one tail."

I let that sink in. If they were after all three of us, we had bigger problems.

Dexter checked his phone. "I'll call in an hour. If I say 'all clear,' I'm good. If I say 'Boston's cold tonight'--"

Marisha nodded. Safe word.

If he got caught, we'd know.

I shifted in my seat, tension coiling in my chest. "And if you don't call at all?"

Dexter didn't look at me when he answered.

"Then you two better disappear."

Marisha's hands tightened on the wheel, and she hit the gas, weaving toward the airport exit.

The game had changed.

And we were officially running.

Marisha gripped the wheel tighter, her eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror. The sedan's tires hummed against the pavement, the city lights blurring past as we cut through the late-night traffic.

No one spoke. No one had to. The air inside the car was thick with an unspoken understanding: this wasn't over.

Dexter checked his phone, then the side mirror. "They're still back there."

I twisted slightly, careful not to make it obvious. A black SUV trailed us--three cars behind, shifting lanes when we did, never getting too close, but never dropping back either.

Marisha exhaled through her nose. "Not amateurs."

"No," Dexter muttered. "But let's see how much they really want this."

He tapped something into his phone and slid it into his pocket.

A moment later, my own phone buzzed in my jacket. A rideshare notification. A fake pickup request--Dexter's decoy. A trick to split their attention.

Marisha cut across two lanes and took the exit for Logan International. The sedan hesitated for just a second too long, caught in the shuffle of late-night taxis and hotel shuttles.

Dexter let out a quiet chuckle. "Gotcha."

But no one relaxed.

We weaved through the airport loop, past terminals crowded with red-eye passengers, past security checkpoints and bus stations, until Marisha finally pulled toward the long-term parking garage.

The moment we pulled into the dimly lit parking garage, Marisha slowed the car to a crawl, scanning the rows of vehicles. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a sickly yellow hue across the concrete floor.

Dexter twisted in his seat, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror one last time before nodding to himself. "Alright. Time to move."

Marisha and I didn't hesitate. We threw open our doors and slipped out. The moment my feet hit the pavement, my pulse kicked up again.

Dexter slid over into the driver's seat, adjusting the mirrors. He glanced up at Marisha through the windshield. "Keep him safe."

Marisha's expression was unreadable, but she gave him a sharp nod.

Dexter exhaled, then gripped the wheel. "I'll call in an hour."

Then, with a quiet screech of rubber against concrete, he pulled out and disappeared into the maze of the garage, heading toward the exit.

I watched the taillights vanish around the corner.

Something heavy settled in my chest.

"You think he'll be okay?" I asked.

Marisha didn't answer right away. She kept her eyes on the exit for a second longer before turning to me. "Dexter can handle himself."

I wasn't sure if that was an answer or just a way to keep me focused, but I nodded anyway.

Then she gestured toward the elevators. "Come on. We're not standing around waiting to find out if he's right."

We slipped deeper into the airport, merging with the late-night travelers moving in and out of the terminals. My pulse pounded in my ears, but I forced myself to keep my pace controlled--too fast, and we'd stand out, too slow, and we'd be easy targets.

Marisha walked slightly ahead, her posture relaxed but eyes constantly scanning. I did the same, tracking reflections in glass storefronts, catching glimpses of anyone lingering too long.

We cut through a crowded atrium, past a pair of pilots waiting for their shuttle, past a cluster of tired businessmen glued to their phones. At one point, I spotted a man near the escalators, dark jacket, no luggage. He wasn't watching us, not directly--but something about the way he lingered sent a ripple of unease through me.

Marisha saw him too. She veered toward a convenience store, pulling me in behind her. We pretended to browse the bottled water and overpriced snacks, using the glass refrigerator doors to check behind us.

After a few seconds, the man moved on.

She grabbed a pack of gum, tossed it to me, and nodded toward the exit. "Let's go."

We kept moving, slipping through a row of automated doors and out into the parking structure that led to the rental counters. The night air was thick with exhaust fumes and the low hum of idling shuttles.

Only then did I exhale.

Logan Airport -- Rental Car Counter.

We moved fast. In and out, no time for second-guessing.

The rental counter was mostly empty at this hour, save for a tired-looking clerk scrolling through his phone. Marisha handled the details while I kept my head down, casually scanning the room for anything--or anyone--out of place.

It didn't take long. Within minutes, she was sliding a set of keys across the counter.

A silver mid-size SUV.

I raised an eyebrow, smirking as we walked toward the garage where the rental was parked. "Silver, huh? I thought feds liked black Suburbans."

Marisha actually gave a small laugh as she unlocked the car. "Only when we want to scream 'FBI' to everyone watching." She opened the driver's side door. "Tonight, we're aiming for forgettable."

Fair point.

I climbed into the back seat, lying low as she started the engine. The familiar hum of an SUV filled the cabin, and I felt the vibration under me as she eased out of the parking spot.

As we pulled out of the garage, I couldn't shake the weight in my gut. My mind was still on Dexter, still playing out a thousand different scenarios in my head.

Then Marisha spoke, snapping me back to the present.

"Where now?" I asked.

She kept her eyes on the road. "Somewhere safe."

I let out a slow breath and nodded.

Whatever happened next, we weren't waiting around for them to make the next move.

We were disappearing.

Marisha pulled the rental car onto the airport access road, merging into the steady stream of taxis, shuttles, and late-night travelers trying to leave the chaos of Logan behind.

No one spoke at first. The only sounds were the low hum of the engine and the distant roar of planes taking off into the night.

Dexter hadn't called yet. That fact sat heavy between us.

Marisha checked the mirror, her fingers drumming once against the steering wheel. "Nothing behind us," she muttered, but she didn't sound convinced.

I turned slightly, scanning the flow of traffic. No obvious tails. No black SUVs. No lingering threats. But that didn't mean we weren't still being watched.

I exhaled slowly, pressing back into the seat, feeling the weight of the last few hours settle into my bones. Logan was behind us. Boston was behind us. But the problem hadn't gone away.

It had only just begun.

The highway stretched long and dark outside the windows, the glow of the city fading in the rearview mirror as Marisha drove. The tension in the car was thick, pressing down on us like a weight neither of us wanted to acknowledge.

Lying low in the backseat wasn't exactly comfortable, but I wasn't about to sit up and make myself a target. Still, sitting in silence wasn't helping anything.

So I did what I always did when things got too heavy--I tried to lighten the mood.

"So," I started, shifting slightly, "this is kind of a weird first date."

Marisha snorted. "This is not a date."

"Could've fooled me," I said. "Low lighting, a long drive, me hiding in the back seat while you take the wheel. Classic romance."

She shook her head, but I caught the faintest hint of a smirk.

Encouraged, I went on. "Alright, let's make small talk then. Where'd you grow up?"

She hesitated for a beat but then sighed. "D. C. Born and raised."

I raised an eyebrow. "FBI was always the goal, then?"

Marisha tilted her head slightly as she thought. "Not exactly. My dad was a cop. I grew up around law enforcement, but I wasn't sure I wanted to follow in his footsteps. At first, I thought I'd go into forensic psychology."

That caught my interest. "What changed?"

She let out a quiet breath. "I interned at a field office in college. Watched real cases unfold, saw what it was like to chase the truth instead of just analyzing it. I guess I realized I wanted to be in the thick of it."

I nodded, watching the faint glow of passing streetlights flicker across her face. "You like it?"

She didn't answer right away. "Some days."

I smirked. "That's honest."

Marisha glanced at me through the mirror. "You don't strike me as someone who sugarcoats things. I figured you'd appreciate it."

"Fair enough."

A brief silence fell between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable. For the first time since this whole nightmare started, it felt like a normal conversation. Almost.

Then she turned it on me. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Where'd you grow up?"

"Columbus, Ohio," I said automatically. "Born and raised."

She nodded, keeping her eyes on the road. "Family?"

I hesitated for half a second, but there was no point in dodging. "My mom raised me alone. She was the strongest person I've ever known."

Marisha's expression softened slightly. "She still around?"

A lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it down. "No. She died when I was twenty. Cancer."

Her fingers tightened on the wheel. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," I muttered. "Me too."

Silence stretched again, but this time, it was heavier.

I forced myself to lighten the mood. "She would've loved all this, though. She was my biggest supporter. Always had my back, no matter what." I smirked faintly. "She probably would've yelled at you guys for dragging me in for questioning."

Marisha let out a short laugh. "Sounds like a good woman."

"The best."

Another pause. Then I tilted my head, eyeing her in the mirror. "I guess you already know most of this, though."

She glanced at me, amused. "What makes you say that?"

I grinned. "Come on. You read my file before you left for Paris, didn't you?"

She didn't even try to deny it. "Of course I did."

I let out a quiet chuckle. "So, you already know all my dirty secrets?"

Marisha smirked. "Just the ones on record."

I raised an eyebrow. "You saying there's more?"

She shot me a look but didn't answer, and for the first time in a long time, I almost forgot I was on the run.

Almost.

But reality wasn't far behind.

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. "So, where exactly is 'somewhere safe'?"

Marisha's expression sobered as she returned her focus to the road.

"Someplace they won't be looking for you," she said.

Her voice had lost the easy humor, and just like that, the moment was gone.

Because no matter how much small talk we made, the truth was still chasing us.

The silence settled in again, heavier this time. The lull of the road, the faint vibration of the tires against the pavement--it should have been calming, but it wasn't.

I stared out the window, watching the glow of passing streetlights carve flickering patterns across the rental's dashboard. Marisha drove with the same quiet focus she always had, her grip on the wheel steady, her posture just a little too rigid.

Every so often, she glanced in the rearview mirror.

I did too.

The highway stretched empty behind us. No headlights trailing too close. No shadows lurking in the distance. But that didn't mean we weren't still being followed--just that whoever was watching knew how to stay hidden.

I shifted, stretching my legs, but the tension in my chest didn't ease. Too many questions, too many unknowns, and no time to stop and figure it all out.

I checked my phone again. No messages. No missed calls.

Marisha noticed but didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

I exhaled through my nose, pressing my thumb and forefinger against my temples.

Too many moving pieces.

Too many ways this could go wrong.

Springfield, MA -- Safe House Hotel, 2:13 AM.

The drive felt endless. Hours of road stretching behind us, marked only by the occasional highway exit and the glow of passing streetlights.

When Marisha finally pulled into the dimly lit parking lot of a small, forgettable hotel, exhaustion hit me like a freight train.

She put the SUV in park but didn't move right away. Instead, she looked straight ahead, fingers still gripping the wheel. "Stay here," she said.

I was too damn tired to argue.

She grabbed a key card from the cupholder, climbed out, and disappeared into the lobby. The SUV's engine ticked as it cooled, the night air thick with silence.

A few minutes later, the passenger door swung open.

"Let's go."

I followed her inside, my senses dull but still aware enough to recognize where we were.

Springfield, Massachusetts.

Not too far from Boston, but just far enough.

Smart.

The hotel was nothing special--neutral-colored walls, slightly dim lighting, and the faint scent of industrial-strength cleaner. Definitely not the Ritz, but it would do.

As soon as we entered the room, I barely made it past the threshold before collapsing onto the bed.

Marisha, ever the professional, checked the space like she was clearing a crime scene. Bathroom, closet, windows--everything got a once-over.

Finally, she gave a short nod. "We need to lay low," she said.

I groaned into the mattress. "No kidding."

She didn't respond, just sat on the edge of the other bed and checked her phone.

I glanced at my watch, and a knot formed in my stomach.

"We haven't heard from Dexter."

Marisha didn't look up. "I know."

I sat up, running a hand through my hair. "That doesn't bother you?"

She exhaled through her nose. "Of course it does."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then my stomach grumbled.

Marisha raised an eyebrow.

"Okay," I muttered, rubbing my face. "We've been running for hours. We need food."

"I'll get something," she said without hesitation, already standing.

I frowned. "You sure? I can go--"

"No." The finality in her voice left no room for argument.

I sighed. "Fine. But don't take too long."

She gave me a pointed look. "I'm not the one who keeps getting shot at."

Fair.

She grabbed the key card and disappeared out the door, leaving me alone in the dimly lit hotel room.

The quiet settled in fast, thick and suffocating.

I leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling, the hum of the mini-fridge the only sound in the room. My body ached, exhaustion pressing in from all sides, but my mind wouldn't stop. Wouldn't shut off.

I pulled Melody's note from my pocket, smoothing the creased paper against my palm. The ink was still sharp, still deliberate, still screaming the words I had been running from.

If anything happens to me--I didn't run. I knew.

I exhaled slowly, folding it back up and tucking it into my wallet. I couldn't look at it anymore. Not tonight.

I checked my phone. Nothing. No new messages. No missed calls. Just the time staring back at me, inching forward too slow.

Outside, a distant car engine rumbled before fading into the night.

I closed my eyes, tried to let my muscles relax, but my body refused to give in.

Sleep wasn't coming. Not yet.

So I waited.

And when the door finally clicked open forty minutes later, the glorious smell of greasy fast food filled the air..

"Salvation," I muttered, sitting up as she placed the bag on the small table by the window.

Marisha rolled her eyes. "You're dramatic."

I unwrapped a burger and took a bite, letting the food ground me for a second.

For the next twenty minutes, we ate in relative peace, making small talk--nothing too deep, nothing too serious. It was the first time in hours that we weren't running or looking over our shoulders.

I told her about my worst performance on stage--how my trombone had slid off its stand mid-solo in front of a full house. She actually laughed.

She told me about a case she worked years ago that had her posing as a consultant for a real estate firm. "Six months undercover," she said, shaking her head. "Worst part? The office coffee was terrible."

I smirked. "And here I thought FBI work was glamorous."

Then, Marisha's phone buzzed.

We both froze.

She grabbed it, reading the screen. Dexter.

She exhaled. "He says he lost his tail."

Relief flooded through me.

She kept reading. "He'll call at 8:08 AM sharp."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oddly specific."

She shrugged. "It's how he operates."

I sighed, leaning back against the headboard. "Good. Now all we have to do is survive until morning."

Marisha gave me a dry look. "Easy, right?"

I smirked. "Piece of cake."

Marisha didn't laugh, but I caught the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth--half amusement, half exhaustion.

The last of the fast-food wrappers crinkled as I pushed them aside, the room settling into silence. Outside, the world was still dark, still quiet, the hum of a vending machine in the hallway the only sign of life.

She checked her phone one last time, then exhaled and stood. "We should get some rest."

I nodded, but neither of us moved right away.

We weren't just tired--we were drained, hollowed out by the weight of everything trailing behind us. Sleep was necessary, but neither of us really expected it to come easy.

Eventually, Marisha flipped off the lamp, plunging the room into dim hotel-night glow.

4:12 AM -- Trying to Sleep.

We tried to sleep.

Marisha claimed one bed, I took the other.

But neither of us drifted off easily.

The night felt too heavy, the silence too fragile--like at any moment, the past would come crashing through the door.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time, my mind racing.

Somewhere out there, someone wanted us dead.

And the only person who had the answers...

Was gone.

The thought echoed in my head long after I'd let my eyes close.

I lay there in the darkness, listening to the faint hum of the hotel's heater kicking on, the occasional muffled sounds of movement in the hallway. Sleep wasn't coming easy--not when my mind wouldn't let go of the past, of Melody, of the truth buried just out of reach.

Still, exhaustion won.

At some point, my body gave in, the weight of everything pressing me down into the mattress. My breathing slowed, the edges of thought blurred, and for the first time in what felt like years, I drifted.

Not peacefully. Not fully.

But enough.

A soft murmur stirred me from sleep.

I blinked, my mind groggy, my body still heavy from exhaustion. The hotel room was dimly lit by the morning sun filtering through the cheap curtains.

Marisha was sitting on the edge of the bed, phone to her ear. Her voice was low, measured.

"Yeah, he's awake now."

I pushed myself up on my elbows, confused.

She glanced at me and smirked. "Look who finally decided to join the living."

"Who's that?" My voice was rough, still thick with sleep.

She covered the phone's mic. "Dexter."

That snapped me into focus. I sat up straight.

I instinctively checked my wrist, but my iWatch was dead. I frowned and looked at Marisha, who held up her own phone.

8:10 AM.

"You didn't wake me?" I asked.

She shrugged. "You needed sleep."

I exhaled, rubbing my face as she spoke back into the phone. "I'll call you back in a few hours. We need to figure something out first."

She hung up before Dexter could argue.

I stretched my sore muscles and yawned. "What now?"

Marisha didn't hesitate. "We need to figure out what this note means."

I nodded, fully awake now.

She grabbed her jacket. "First things first, though. We need chargers, fresh clothes, and food that doesn't come in a paper bag."

I smirked. "You saying you didn't love that midnight burger?"

She shot me a flat look.

I chuckled and got out of bed. "Alright, let's go shopping."

Marisha didn't wait for me to stall or rethink the plan. She grabbed her jacket, tossed me mine, and was at the door before I even finished running a hand through my hair.

We kept it quiet as we left the hotel, the early morning hush wrapping around us. The hallway smelled like stale coffee and industrial cleaner, the kind of forgettable place designed for people just passing through.

Fitting.

The elevator ride was silent, the kind that felt heavier than it should. Outside, the parking lot was still mostly empty, damp with the remnants of overnight rain.

No signs of trouble. Not yet.

Marisha led the way toward the main street, adjusting her pace to something casual but deliberate--like we were just two people starting their morning, not two people trying to stay invisible.

The morning air was cool and crisp, the streets waking up with the slow hum of traffic and pedestrians. We walked side by side, keeping a low profile, but to anyone watching, we looked like any other pair of travelers.

Marisha kept the conversation light. "So, Ohio, huh?"

I nodded, shoving my hands into my pockets. "Yep. Columbus. Lived there until I got into Juilliard."

She raised an eyebrow. "Big move."

"Yeah," I said with a nostalgic smile. "First time I ever lived outside Ohio. Felt like stepping onto another planet."

She smirked. "And now you live in Paris."

"Not by choice," I muttered.

Marisha gave me a side glance. "And yet, you didn't seem eager to come back."

I huffed a laugh. "Would you, if the whole city thought you were a murderer?"

She didn't answer.

We reached the store and headed inside.

It was a small place, but it had everything we needed. I grabbed some cheap t-shirts and jeans, nothing flashy. Marisha picked up a basic black hoodie and jeans, blending into the background like she always did.

We left the store without a word, keeping our pace steady, casual--just two people running errands, nothing more. The weight of the burner phones and chargers in the plastic bag felt heavier than it should, like we were carrying something more than just electronics.

Outside, the morning had settled into a slow rhythm, the streets busier now--commuters grabbing coffee, parents wrangling kids, the usual background noise of a world that didn't know or care that we were on the run.

It felt too normal.

We kept our heads down, walking the long way back to the hotel, eyes flicking over reflections in shop windows, checking for anything--or anyone--out of place.

Nothing.

By the time we reached our room, the tension had coiled so tightly in my chest that I hadn't even realized I was holding my breath.

The door shut behind us with a soft click. A moment of silence.

Marisha exhaled, tossed the bag onto the bed, and got to work.

Once inside, Marisha plugged in her phone and immediately opened her notes app.. She typed in the username and password from Melody's note.

I hovered over her shoulder as the screen loaded.

A single email inbox appeared.

Marisha frowned. "Only one email."

She clicked it.

A URL link.

Marisha glanced at me before pressing it.

A video player opened.

The image hit me like a gut punch.

It was the day I proposed to Melody.

Tanglewood. The orchestra. The audience.

Her.

Marisha narrowed her eyes. "Why would Melody email herself a link to this?"

I shook my head, swallowing hard. "I don't know."

My mind raced back to that day, to the warm summer air, the nervous energy buzzing through me, the way she looked at me when I knelt down on that stage.

But there was nothing suspicious about it. No secret clues, no cryptic messages.

Marisha leaned back. "Well, there's only one way to find out."

I looked at her, knowing what she was about to say.

"We need to get to Tanglewood."

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. Tanglewood.

The place where everything changed.

Marisha stood up and grabbed her new clothes. "Get changed. I'll text Dexter."

I nodded, grabbing my own fresh clothes and heading for the bathroom.

The shower was quick--just enough to scrub off the exhaustion clinging to my skin. The scalding water didn't do much to loosen the knots in my shoulders, but I wasn't expecting miracles.

By the time I stepped out, steam curling against the mirror, the room had settled into a quiet efficiency. Marisha had already changed, her old clothes folded neatly on the chair, her phone in her hand as she checked for updates.

I dressed fast, tossing my damp towel onto the rack. There wasn't time for second-guessing or hesitation--just forward motion.

Marisha glanced up as I grabbed my jacket. "Ready?"

I nodded. "Let's go."

We were out the door in minutes, slipping into the rental and pulling onto the road. The city thinned behind us, giving way to stretches of highway, the miles between us and Tanglewood vanishing in the rearview.

By the time we were back in the SUV, Dexter texted back.

Dexter: Good. Keep me posted. Call when you have more. I'm going to dig into some things on my end.

Marisha tossed her phone into the cupholder and pulled out of the parking lot.

Tanglewood wasn't just a place from my past anymore.

It was the next step in uncovering what Melody knew.

And I had a feeling--a bad one--that we weren't the only ones looking for it.

Marisha must have sensed it too. She tightened her grip on the wheel, her gaze flicking between the road and the rearview mirror more often than necessary. Neither of us said it out loud, but the unspoken question hung in the air between us.

Were we already too late?

I glanced at my phone. No new messages. No updates. Just the weight of the unknown pressing against my ribs.

Outside, the city had long since faded behind us, replaced by long stretches of empty road, the kind that made you feel small against the world. The kind that felt like they could lead anywhere--or nowhere at all.

The silence stretched, thick with everything we weren't saying.

The road stretched before us, a winding path cutting through Massachusetts countryside. The tension in the car was thick, neither of us speaking at first. The note. The email. The video. Tanglewood. It all pointed to something--something Melody had left behind.

Marisha finally broke the silence.

"Do you think she's alive?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable.

I didn't answer right away.

Instead, I stared out the window, watching trees blur past, my fingers tapping absently against my thigh. I had asked myself this same question a million times over the years. I had hoped, I had prayed, and I had tortured myself over the possibilities.

But after six years, I had also learned to accept reality.

I took a deep breath. "A part of me wants her to be," I admitted. "But the realist in me knows Melody is probably gone."

Marisha didn't respond right away. She just kept her eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel.

The silence stretched.

Eventually, she cut through it. "Tell me about her."

I sighed, shifting in my seat. "She was... stubborn. In the best way. She had this energy about her, like she knew exactly where she was going, and nothing was going to stop her." A small, sad smile tugged at my lips. "She wasn't just brilliant--she was relentless. If she believed in something, she'd fight for it."

Marisha glanced at me. "Sounds like someone else I know."

I let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah, well. That's probably why we worked." My fingers absently traced the edge of the door. "She had this laugh... I don't know how to describe it. It was contagious. The kind of laugh that made you want to be around her all the time."

Marisha nodded, not pushing me for more.

I exhaled and looked ahead as we pulled off the highway. Tanglewood.

It was time to find out what Melody had left behind.

The last stretch of road leading to Tanglewood was quieter than I remembered. The trees lining the way stood tall and still, their branches stretching toward the sky like frozen hands. The tires hummed against the pavement, the sound almost too steady, too calm--like the world didn't know, or didn't care, about the storm brewing inside me.

Marisha pulled into the gravel lot near the main entrance, killing the engine. Neither of us moved right away.

I stared out the window, at the familiar sloping landscape, the distant rooftops of the performance halls, the pathways that twisted through the property like veins.

I had been here before.

But never like this.

I exhaled sharply and pushed the door open, stepping out onto the gravel.

The moment we stepped onto the property, the memories rushed back. The last time I was here, it had been the best day of my life. The day I proposed.

Now? It felt different.

Marisha led the way into the main building, walking straight up to the receptionist. She pulled out her badge, flashing it smoothly. "FBI. We need to check out the amphitheater. It's part of an active investigation."

The receptionist--a young woman with wide eyes--nodded quickly. "O-of course. Right this way."

She led us through the hallways, eventually pushing open a set of large double doors.

And just like that, we were there.

The Tanglewood amphitheater loomed around us, eerily silent under the dimming sky.

I swallowed hard as I stepped onto the stage, memories clashing with the weight of the present. The last time I stood here, I proposed to Melody. Now, I was chasing the last message she left behind.

Marisha moved in sync beside me, scanning the empty venue with sharp, practiced glances. "Where do we start?"

I exhaled, forcing my pulse to slow. "The piano."

We crossed the stage toward the grand piano, the same one I had played before I dropped to one knee all those years ago. I ran my fingers along the cool surface, my heartbeat quickening.

Then--something caught my eye.

A small object, wedged deep against the sound plate.

My breath hitched.

"Wait," I muttered, reaching in carefully. My fingers brushed against something smooth, metallic.

A thumb drive.

I turned it over in my palm, my mind racing.

"This is it."

Marisha's eyes narrowed. "That's what Melody left."

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah."

Then--

A flicker of movement from the shadows.

My instincts screamed.

Without thinking--I lunged toward Marisha and shoved her aside.

CRACK!

The first gunshot shattered the silence.

The bullet tore through the space where Marisha had been standing seconds ago.

Pain erupted in my left shoulder.

The impact sent me staggering back, the thumb drive slipping from my fingers as I crashed against the piano's polished wood.

A second shot ripped through the air--splinters exploded from the piano near my head.

Marisha hit the ground but was already moving, rolling into a crouch, her gun snapping up toward the shooter's position.

"Alex! Stay down!" she shouted, scanning the upper balconies.

I could barely hear her over the roar in my ears.

My breath came in ragged gasps, pain spreading like fire through my shoulder. Warm blood seeped between my fingers as I clutched the wound.

But then--

My gaze locked onto the thumb drive, lying just inches away on the stage floor.

I reached for it.

Then--

CRACK.

The third shot rang out, and everything went black.

To Be Continued