Melody's Silence Pt. 01

My name is Alexander Brooks, and I've been a ghost for six years

.

I didn't leave Boston--I cut my losses. Let them call it running. I call it self-preservation. Time doesn't heal. It just buries the pain where it can whisper back at you when you least expect it.

In Paris, I am no one. Not the scandal, not the villain, not the unfinished case. Just a man still learning how to disappear.

Ghosts don't rest. And the past? It doesn't knock--it kicks the door in.

I'm just a musician, a composer, the first trombone for the Orchestre de Paris. Music is the one thing that's never betrayed me. When I play, I don't have to explain myself. I don't have to convince anyone of my innocence. I just have to let the notes speak, and for a few fleeting moments, it's enough.

That doesn't mean I don't think about Boston. About Melody. About what could have been. I loved her--still love her in a way that makes it impossible to move on. But love doesn't mean much when the world decides you're guilty. Her parents, the public, even people who once called themselves my friends--they all made up their minds before the dust even settled. And maybe that's the hardest part, knowing that no matter what I say, no matter what I do, it will never be enough.

Paris lets me pretend. The music helps. But ghosts don't care about city lines. And maybe one day, the truth will come out. Maybe one day, I'll find out what really happened to Melody. Until then, all I have is the music.

The debate had gone on for nearly twenty minutes, and no one was backing down.

"Mais non!" Pierre scoffed, waving his cigarette in the air for emphasis. "Beethoven should never have considered naming the third symphony after Bonaparte. The man was a tyrant in waiting!"

Isabelle leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming with passion. "Tyrant or not, at the time, Napoleon symbolized the people! Beethoven admired him because he saw him as the embodiment of revolutionary ideals!"

I smirked, swirling the last of my espresso in its tiny cup. "The second Napoleon crowned himself, Beethoven ripped the title page to shreds. Guess he learned the hard way--put too much faith in a man, and he'll always let you down."

Arnaud, ever the dramatic one, clutched his chest. "Ah, but imagine if he hadn't changed it to 'Eroica.' Would the world have accepted such a blatant dedication to a man who crowned himself?"

Just as Isabelle opened her mouth to retort, the rumble of an approaching engine cut through the lively café chatter. A massive tour bus groaned to a stop not far from us, its doors hissing open. A flood of tourists began to spill onto the pavement, unmistakable even from a distance. Fanny packs, sneakers too white, baseball caps proudly declaring their city of origin--Americans.

I chuckled and leaned back in my chair. "C'est la saison touristique," I mused, watching the group fumble with maps and gesture wildly at the quaint market street ahead.

I was about to turn back to the conversation when movement near the bus froze me in place. Two figures emerged, blending in at first with the rest of the crowd. But as they stepped further into the light, my breath caught.

Beth and Scott.

For a second, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. The last time I saw Beth, she was in a Boston police station, grief sharpening into fury as she spat accusations in my face. Scott had said less, but his silence was damning enough. They believed I had taken their daughter from them. They would never stop believing it.

The tour group started moving toward the market, Beth and Scott trailing at the edges, looking around as if taking in the sights. My pulse kicked up. If they saw me, if they recognized me--

I pushed back from the table abruptly, mumbling something about needing air. My fellow musicians barely noticed, still tangled in their argument over Beethoven's artistic integrity. I slipped into the moving crowd, head down, heart pounding. I couldn't be here. Not now. Not with them.

I kept my head down, weaving through the market crowd as quickly as I could without drawing attention to myself. The lively hum of Rue Cler surrounded me--the scent of fresh baguettes, the calls of vendors advertising their cheese and wine, the occasional burst of laughter from café tables. But all of it blurred into the background, drowned out by the pounding of my heart.

Just a little further. Just around the next corner. Just out of sight.

Then, a sharp voice cut through the air.

"Alex?"

I flinched as if struck. My pace quickened, but it was too late.

"Alex!" Beth's voice cut through the market hum, her heels striking the cobblestones like gunshots.

I turned away, pushing past a couple examining a display of fresh fruit, nearly knocking over a small stand of flowers in my hurry. Behind me, Beth shouted again, her voice filled with something between fury and desperation.

Beth's voice cut through the air, raw and unrelenting. 'You killed her, and now you hide?'

I was already turning away, already calculating the fastest route to vanish. But then Scott said it--the word that burned like acid.

"Coward."

My breath stuttered. A flicker of something dangerous surged up my throat--anger, indignation, the urge to grab him by the collar and make him listen. But what would that do? What did it ever do?

Instead, I turned my back and walked away, the ghost they had always believed me to be.

I shoved forward, barely aware of where I was going--just that I had to get away. My flat wasn't far, just a few streets over. I could be there in minutes if I kept moving.

The shouts followed me, Beth calling my name, Scott hurling accusations. Faces in the crowd turned toward the commotion, but I didn't look back. I couldn't. My breath came in ragged gasps as I darted past a line of parked scooters, crossed the street without checking for traffic, and finally, finally, reached my building.

Fumbling with my keys, I yanked open the door and slipped inside, slamming it shut behind me. My hands were shaking as I locked it, one bolt, then two. Only when I was sure--absolutely sure--that no one had followed me did I slide down to the floor, my back pressing against the cool wood.

I was breathing hard, my chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. The apartment was silent, but in my head, Scott's voice still echoed, the word slamming into me over and over.

Coward.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the words away, but they clung to me, digging into the parts of me I tried so hard to bury. Six years, an ocean away, and I was still living in the wreckage of something I couldn't outrun.

I pressed my palms against my face, willing my breath to slow, but Scott's voice still echoed in my skull, his words a brand on my conscience. Coward. Murderer. The past had never left me. I had just convinced myself that an ocean between us meant something, that distance could rewrite history. But it didn't. It never would.

I exhaled, long and slow, and let my head fall back against the door. My mind, seeking refuge from the weight of the present, drifted to a different time--before all of this. Before Paris, before exile, before Melody disappeared. To the night I met her.

It was at a frat party, the kind I normally wouldn't have gone to if my friend hadn't dragged me along. The place was packed, music too loud, the scent of beer and cheap cologne thick in the air. I had just grabbed a drink when I saw her. She stood across the room, laughing with a few friends, the warm glow of the dim lighting catching in her brown hair. And then, as if she could feel my gaze, she looked up. Our eyes met, and for a moment, the party faded into a dull hum. She didn't look away. Neither did I.

I was never one to shy away from a moment like that. With a smirk, I made my way toward her, drink in hand, and struck up a conversation. She was sharp, quick-witted, and effortlessly charming. When she told me she was attending Harvard Law, I feigned being impressed, and she rolled her eyes at my teasing. I told her about Juilliard, about music, and for a while, it was just the two of us, talking like the rest of the party didn't exist.

By the end of the night, as people started filtering out, she smirked at me, tilting her head. "You know, when I first saw you, I thought you were just another guy trying to get into my pants."

I laughed, raising my hands in mock surrender. "Guilty as charged. But in my defense, I also really like talking to you."

She rolled her eyes but smiled, shaking her head as she pulled out her phone. We exchanged numbers, and as she turned to leave, she glanced back at me one last time, that same knowing smile on her lips. I stood there, watching her disappear into the night, feeling something I hadn't expected--something more than just attraction. It was the beginning of something real. I just didn't know then how much it would cost me.

Even with the miles between us, Melody and I never lost touch. What started as flirtation at a frat party quickly grew into something deeper. We texted constantly, called late into the night when our schedules allowed it. She would tell me about the long, grueling hours at Harvard Law, about professors who seemed determined to break her spirit, and I would listen, offering jokes and reassurance in equal measure. In turn, I told her about Juilliard, about my endless rehearsals and the pressure to be better, always better. The distance never seemed to matter. If anything, it made what we had stronger.

By the time I graduated, I knew there was no question--I wanted to be with her. I turned down opportunities in New York and instead took a job with the Boston Pops. It wasn't easy breaking into their ranks, but I worked my ass off, determined to earn my place. Melody was still in law school then, her days a blur of case studies and mock trials, but we made it work. It was during this time that I met her parents for the first time. Beth and Scott were polite but cautious, sizing me up like I was being cross-examined. Beth, especially, was protective of Melody, and I couldn't blame her. Over time, though, I think they saw how serious I was about her. How much I loved her.

Love. That was what it had turned into--not just a friendship, not just an infatuation, but something real, something neither of us could ignore. One night, after she had aced a brutal midterm, we went out to celebrate. The night was warm, and she was buzzing from victory and cheap champagne. Back at her place, she kissed me, slow and lingering, her fingers tracing the collar of my shirt before slipping beneath.

We made love that night, the first time feeling like an unspoken promise. The way she pulled me to her, the way our bodies moved together, like we had always belonged that way. It wasn't rushed or frantic but something deeper, something I felt in every brush of her hands, every sigh against my skin. When it was over, we lay tangled in her sheets, her head resting on my chest, our breaths slowing in time with each other. I remember pressing a kiss to her hair and whispering something--I don't even remember what, just that it made her smile against my skin before she drifted off to sleep.

Eventually, we moved in together. She was finishing law school, and I had just become the first trombone for the Boston Pops--one of the youngest to ever hold the position. Our careers were flourishing, and life felt like it was falling perfectly into place. I still remember the day she got the call--she had landed a job as a junior associate at one of the top law firms in Boston. She was ecstatic, practically vibrating with excitement as she jumped into my arms, laughing. That night, we celebrated with dinner, with music, with whispered dreams of the future.

And that future felt real--tangible--when I decided to propose. I had been planning it for months, secretly arranging everything with the The Pops' music director. A summer concert at Tanglewood, one of Melody's favorite places. I would take the stage, and in front of thousands, I would ask her to marry me. It was perfect. It was supposed to be perfect. But looking back now, I wonder if fate had already decided that perfection was never meant to last.

At first, I didn't think much of it. Stress, maybe. Melody's job at the firm was demanding, and she had always been the type to push herself past her limits. I told myself that the long hours and the exhaustion were just part of it. That she would come back to me, to us, when things settled. But then she started pulling away. Subtle at first--late nights at the office that turned into entire weekends, texts left on read, conversations that used to flow so easily now stilted, forced. I tried to get her to talk about it, to tell me what was wrong, but she would shake her head, offer some clipped excuse, and change the subject.

Then came the fights. They started out of nowhere, over nothing. A misplaced book, a forgotten errand, the way I left my shoes by the door instead of in the closet. But they escalated fast. One moment, we'd be talking, and the next, she'd be shouting, her face flushed with anger. I'd shout back, not understanding why this was happening, why everything that had once been so easy between us was suddenly crumbling. The fights grew worse, more frequent. Neighbors started complaining about the noise. I barely recognized us anymore.

Then came that Monday. A week after our worst fight yet. The silence between us had stretched so long that it felt suffocating. I was getting ready for rehearsal, going through the motions, pretending like things weren't unraveling. I leaned in to kiss her goodbye, the way I always did. But she turned her head. Wouldn't look at me. Wouldn't say a word. It was like I wasn't even there.

Something in my gut twisted as I left that morning, but I told myself it was just another bad day. That when I came home, we would talk. We would fix this.

But when I returned later that evening, the apartment was empty. The quiet felt different this time. Not the kind of quiet that meant she was just working late, but something heavier. Something wrong. Her shoes weren't by the door. Her coat wasn't hanging on the rack. I checked the bedroom--her side of the bed was untouched.

I cooked dinner anyway. One of her favorites. Some stupid part of me thought perhaps she would walk through that door. That we would sit down and eat, and I would finally get her to talk to me. But the food went cold. The apartment stayed empty. And Melody never came home.

The next morning, I woke up to the same silence that had followed me to bed. Melody's side of the bed was still untouched, the sheets cold. My stomach knotted as I reached for my phone and called her. Straight to voicemail. I called again. And again. Nothing.

Panic started creeping in, but I forced myself to stay rational. Maybe she just needed space. Maybe she had crashed at a friend's place. So I started calling--her coworkers, her friends, anyone who might know where she was. Each time, the answer was the same: they hadn't seen her. Hadn't heard from her. No one knew anything. That was when I knew something was really wrong.

By noon, I was sitting in a Boston PD precinct, filing a missing persons report. I explained everything to the officer at the desk--the fights, the silence, the way she had just vanished. He nodded, taking notes, but there was no urgency, no real concern. Maybe it was the way they looked at me, the practiced neutrality in their eyes. Adults leave all the time, I imagined them thinking. Girlfriends walk out. They handed me a case number, told me they'd look into it, and that was it.

Beth and Scott took it more seriously. When I called them, Beth's voice cracked the moment I told her Melody was missing. They drove in from their home outside the city that same day, sitting with me in my apartment, going through the same names, the same phone calls, the same dead ends. They didn't blame me--not yet. In those early days, we were on the same side, grasping at whatever slivers of hope we could find.

But as the days stretched into weeks, hope withered. The police did what they always did in cases like this--asked a few questions, followed up on a couple of leads, but nothing ever came of it. It became clear that unless a body turned up or Melody walked through the door on her own, they weren't going to do much.

I kept calling. I kept looking. I refused to believe she was just gone. But Beth--her grief turned to something else. To suspicion. To certainty. And then the questions started. The looks. The shift in her voice when she spoke to me. The same shift I heard in Scott's silence. I just didn't know it yet, but I was about to go from the man who loved their daughter to the man they were convinced had taken her away.

Beth and Scott turned to the media. At first, it made sense--they were desperate, just like I was. They wanted answers, wanted someone, anyone, to find Melody. Local news stations picked up the story first, airing her smiling photo with the headline Harvard Law Graduate Goes Missing in Boston. Beth and Scott gave interviews, pleading for help, for tips, for anyone who might have seen something. I even stood beside them once, numb, barely able to form words in front of the cameras. But then the story spread, and everything changed.

It wasn't long before social media got ahold of it. At first, it was just true crime blogs and amateur sleuths theorizing about what could have happened to her. But then the influencers came. They started spinning their own narratives, filling in the blanks with speculation. Maybe Melody had been murdered. Maybe she had been having an affair with someone at her law firm. Maybe her jealous fiancé had something to do with it. The theories caught fire, spreading like a disease. It didn't matter that I had no history of violence. It didn't matter that I had been searching for Melody just as desperately as anyone else. The only thing that mattered was that I was the last known person to see her.

And people ran with it. These so-called "investigators" started analyzing old photos, old social media posts, twisting every detail into something sinister. "Look at the way he holds her hand--possessive." "Did he seem controlling?" "Why isn't he more emotional in interviews?" Strangers who had never met me, never known Melody, were suddenly certain that I had killed her. The police, who had already been indifferent, now had their hands forced. The pressure was on. Why wasn't the fiancé being interrogated? Why wasn't he under arrest? The more the noise grew, the harder the police leaned on me.

I lost count of how many times they brought me in for questioning. Every time, it was the same--hours in a cold room, officers watching my every move, their questions circling back again and again. When was the last time you saw Melody? What did you argue about? Were you angry? I got a lawyer, not because I was guilty, but because I knew how this worked. The moment the world decided you were guilty, innocence stopped mattering. And still, they had nothing. No evidence. No body. Just a missing woman and a fiancé they could not prove had anything to do with it.

But it wasn't just the cops. Beth and Scott--who had once clung to me in their grief--started to pull away. Beth was the first to change, but it was Scott who shattered something inside me. I still remember the day, the exact words, the way his face looked when he finally asked: Did you do something to her?

That nearly broke me. I could have screamed. I could have cried. Instead, I just stared at him, feeling the ground shift beneath me. The man who had once welcomed me into his home, who had trusted me with his daughter's heart, now looked at me like I was a monster. And the world agreed. The pressure grew so unbearable that the Boston Pops suspended me. They phrased it carefully--a leave of absence--but we all knew what it meant. I was a liability. An accused man without an arrest, a stain they didn't want on their name. My career, my reputation, everything I had built, was slipping away. And Melody was still gone.

I don't remember the exact moment I decided to leave. Maybe it wasn't a single moment, but a slow unraveling, a series of cracks forming until I couldn't hold myself together anymore. Boston had become unbearable. Every time I stepped outside, I felt the weight of a thousand eyes, the whispers following me, the stares lingering too long. People I had once called friends kept their distance. The Pops had turned their back on me. The city I had built my life in had made its verdict--I was guilty in the court of public opinion, and there was no appeal. So, I did the only thing I could. I ran.

Paris wasn't a grand plan, just a desperate escape. I had enough savings to get me started, and a connection through the The Pops' music director helped me secure an audition with the Orchestre de Paris. A fresh start. A place where my name wasn't whispered like a ghost story. I poured myself into the music, losing myself in rehearsals, in performances, in the notes that, for a fleeting moment, made me feel like something close to whole. But even music couldn't fix what was broken inside me. The past still clung to me, a shadow that never faded.

Six years. That's how long it had been. Six years of pretending that the numbness was normal. That this was just life now. I had learned to go through the motions, to exist rather than to live. It was like playing a song on a broken instrument--every note slightly off, every melody lacking its soul. I had become a ghost in my own story, drifting through rehearsals, performances, late-night drinks at cafés where no one knew who I was. And for the most part, it worked. Until today. Until them.

Beth and Scott. Their voices still rang in my ears, Scott's accusations pounding in my skull. Coward. Murderer. I forced myself off the floor, shaking, my hands gripping the edge of the counter as I reached for the bottle of whiskey sitting on the shelf. I poured a glass and downed it in one gulp, the burn doing nothing to chase away the memories. Another. Then another. Somewhere between the third and fourth, I stopped counting. The warmth in my chest dulled the ache, blurred the edges of the past, made it all feel distant, almost unreal.

I stumbled to the couch, collapsing onto the cushions. The room spun, but I didn't care. Maybe, if I drank enough, I wouldn't hear Scott's voice anymore. Maybe, just for tonight, I could forget. My eyes grew heavy, the world fading into a haze. I let it take me under, let the past slip away--just for a little while. But even as the darkness pulled me down, I knew it wouldn't last. Because no matter how far I ran, no matter how much I tried to drown it out, the past always found a way back. It always did.

The next three weeks passed in a blur. I threw myself back into my routine, clinging to the structure of rehearsals, performances, and long hours in the practice hall. If I focused hard enough, maybe I could forget the way my past had suddenly crashed into my present. But no matter how much I tried to drown it out, Beth and Scott's voices still echoed in my head. Coward. Murderer. I told myself it didn't matter. That they were just tourists passing through, that they'd leave Paris soon enough. I told myself I could go back to the life I had built. But deep down, I knew better.

Tonight, exhaustion clung to me like a second skin. Mahler's Third Symphony had consumed my life for the past hundred hours--rehearsing, refining, repeating until my arms ached, my lips felt raw, and my mind was nothing but measures of music looping endlessly. I barely had the energy to kick off my shoes as I stepped into my flat. A drink--that was all I wanted. Something to take the edge off, to dull the soreness in my muscles. I poured a generous glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light of the room, and collapsed onto the couch.

I had just lifted the glass to my lips when a knock at the door made me freeze. My first instinct was to ignore it. No one knocked on my door unannounced. My life in Paris was solitary, by design. But the knock came again--firm, expectant. With a sigh, I set the drink down and pushed myself up, padding toward the door.

The moment I opened it, I knew something was wrong. Three people stood in the dimly lit hallway. The man in the center, a Frenchman, looked to be in his early forties, neatly dressed, his expression unreadable. To his left, a woman, African American, mid-thirties, her dark eyes sharp and assessing. She wore a navy pantsuit, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail. And to his right, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a slightly wrinkled suit, graying hair cut short.

The Frenchman spoke first, his tone polite but firm. "Monsieur Brooks?"

I hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding.

"My name is Zacharie Salomon. I am with the French National Police," he said smoothly before gesturing to the two people beside him. "This is Agent Marisha Baxter and Agent Dexter Marshall from the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

The FBI.

I felt the bottom of my stomach drop, but I kept my face carefully neutral.

Agent Baxter didn't waste time. "We're following up on a cold case."

Salomon gave a polite nod. "The FBI would like to revisit the disappearance of Melody McCall."That was new. I expected them to say Boston PD wanted to talk. The FBI? That was different.

I folded my arms. "What, Boston finally decide they don't have enough to pin me with, so they're sending in the Feds?"

Dexter Marshall, the older of the two agents, barely reacted. "You left the country, Brooks. That alone makes this our jurisdiction now."

Baxter tilted her head slightly. "And, after six years, new pressure from the McCalls is forcing Boston PD to reopen the case. That means we're taking another look--before someone else does."

"Someone else," I echoed. That felt like a warning.

Salomon cleared his throat, keeping his voice neutral. "May we come inside?"

I could have said no. I could have slammed the door in their faces. But that wouldn't stop whatever this was from happening.

I exhaled, slow and steady, then stepped aside. "Yeah." My voice was calm. My pulse wasn't. "Come in."

I watched as the three of them took their seats, their expressions unreadable. The room felt smaller with them in it, the air heavier. Ignoring the tension creeping into my shoulders, I grabbed my glass of whiskey, hesitated, then poured it back into the bottle. No reason to waste good whiskey--not on this. I set the bottle down and took my seat across from them, meeting their gazes head-on.

Salomon was the first to speak, his French accent crisp yet fluid. "Monsieur Brooks, the FBI would like to speak to you regarding the disappearance of Melody McCall six years ago."

I sighed, leaning back against the couch, rubbing a hand over my jaw. "Why now?" I asked, my voice edged with tired frustration.

Agent Marshall, the older of the two FBI agents, folded his hands together, his large frame shifting slightly in his seat.

"Because Melody's parents have been pressuring the Boston PD to reopen the case," he said matter-of-factly. "Then, three weeks ago, you were seen in Paris. That got their attention."

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head. "You're wasting your time," I said, forcing my voice to stay calm. "The Boston PD has already interviewed me multiple times. You can go back and talk to them instead of going through this all over again."

Marisha Baxter didn't just watch--she calculated.

She sat across from me, dark eyes calm, pen tapping against her notebook in an even rhythm. Not impatient. Not nervous. Measuring.

"We want to hear it from you," Marshall said, his voice the perfect mix of authority and forced patience.

I exhaled, keeping my posture relaxed. "Boston PD already did. So did the press. So did every armchair detective on the internet. I lost count of how many times I answered the same damn questions."

Dexter folded his hands. "And yet, you left."

I met his gaze, unflinching. "And yet, you're sitting here six years later, still looking for answers. So tell me, Agent Marshall, which one of us really ran?"

His expression didn't change, but Marisha tilted her head slightly. Almost like she agreed.

"Boston PD's under pressure," Marshall continued. "They want you back."

"Because people with power want a body in a cell," I shot back.

Marisha finally spoke. "No. They want closure."

Her voice was smooth, deliberate. The first thing she had said.

I turned my gaze to her. "Is that what you want, Agent Baxter?"

Her lips barely twitched--half amusement, half challenge. "I want the truth."

There it was. The suspect. I clenched my jaw but said nothing, just nodded. I knew how this worked. No point in arguing.

"Alright," I said, exhaling. "Go ahead. Ask your questions."

And so, it began. The standard questions. The same ones I had answered before. They asked me to walk them through the week leading up to Melody's disappearance, to go over every detail, every interaction, every fight, like I hadn't already spent years replaying it all in my head. I told them everything I could, my voice steady even as old wounds threatened to reopen. But the worst part wasn't the questions. It was the feeling that, no matter what I said, they had already decided who I was.

Dexter's voice was steady, almost too casual, when he asked the question. "Do you know anything about the reported affair between Melody and Walter Hobbs, the senior partner at her firm?"

For a moment, I just stared at him, the words not fully registering. And then the rage hit, sudden and blinding.

I shot up from my seat, my pulse hammering. "That's bullshit!" I snapped, my voice sharp enough to cut through the heavy air of the room. "Melody would have never cheated! Never!" My hands curled into fists at my sides, my breath coming hard and fast. Dexter didn't react--he just watched, calm, unreadable, like he had been expecting this exact response. Across from him, Marisha looked up from her notes, her dark eyes locked onto me, studying.

Salomon shifted uncomfortably. "Monsieur Brooks, calmez-vous," he said firmly, his French accent thickening. "We are only asking questions."

Dexter, though, waved him off, still watching me with that same infuriatingly neutral expression. "It's okay," he said, his voice even. "Let him process it."

My knees buckled slightly, and I collapsed back into my seat, my chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. I shook my head, muttering under my breath. No. It can't be true. It can't be.

Dexter leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "That's what the employees at the firm said too," he said simply. "When we interviewed them."

The words twisted like a knife in my gut. It wasn't a theory pulled from thin air. It was something other people had said. People who had worked with Melody. People who had known her. My mind reeled, trying to grasp onto something, anything, that made sense. But nothing did.

I knew Melody. Or at least, I thought I did. Six years ago, I would have laughed in their faces. Now, I just sit here, throat tight, wondering if I was ever looking at the whole picture.

Dexter let the silence stretch for a moment before shifting the conversation. "What do you know about Melody's law firm?" he asked, his tone still steady, still measured.

I exhaled slowly, trying to push away the lingering anger still coiled inside me. "Not much," I admitted. "I met some of them a few times at events. Seemed like the usual group of lawyers--polite, professional. Some of them were nice enough. Others... not so much." I shrugged, rubbing my temple. "Melody never really talked about her work in detail. She'd vent about the stress sometimes, but that was it. She kept specifics to herself."

Dexter nodded, making a small note in the folder resting on his lap. "And when she started acting differently--when the fights started--did she say anything that might explain why?"

I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "No. I tried to get her to talk to me. I knew something was wrong, but she just shut me out. Every time I pushed, she pushed back harder. Then the fights started, and after a while, I didn't know how to reach her anymore." The words tasted hollow, like an old wound reopened. They asked a few more questions, circling the same details of those last weeks before she disappeared--when I last saw her, what her mood was like, any unusual behavior. It was all the same information I had given the Boston PD six years ago. Nothing had changed, except now, for the first time, I was being forced to consider the possibility that I hadn't known everything about Melody's life.

Marisha tilted her head slightly, studying me in a way that felt less like an interrogation and more like... something else. "Why leave the U. S.?"

I met her gaze, holding it a beat longer than I should have. "Because my life was over."

Her pen hovered over her notebook, but she didn't write. "Or because you were running?"

"Same thing, isn't it?"

Her lips pressed into a line--like she didn't entirely agree, but she wasn't ready to say so yet.

"The media, the public, hell, even Melody's parents... they all decided I was guilty before the police even finished their investigation. I lost my career. My friends. My home. Everywhere I went, people whispered, stared, like I was some kind of murderer walking free. So yeah, I left. I came here to start over, to find something outside of all that." I let my shoulders drop slightly, my voice quieter now. "But it looks like the past wasn't done with me."

Marisha's question hung in the air between us. "Do you have any theories about what happened to Melody?"

I exhaled slowly, running a hand through my hair. It was a question I had asked myself a thousand times over the years, and no matter how much I turned it over in my head, I always ended up in the same place--nowhere. "If I had a real answer, I wouldn't be sitting here," I muttered, my voice tired. "But if you're asking what I think happened? I don't know. Maybe she ran. Maybe she was in trouble, and I was too blind to see it." I hesitated, my fingers tightening against my knee. "Maybe someone at that firm had something to do with it."

Dexter shifted slightly in his seat, his sharp gaze studying me. "You really think that?"

I let out a humorless laugh. "I don't know what to think. But I do know Melody. And she wouldn't just walk away from her life for no reason. Something was wrong--something changed in those last few weeks, and I don't think it was just stress. I think she was scared." My voice cracked slightly at the last word, and I hated how raw it sounded. I swallowed hard. "She just wouldn't let me in enough to help her."

Marisha was still watching me carefully, her pen hovering over the page in her notebook. "So you think she was in danger."

I sighed, shaking my head. "I think that if she were alive, she would have come back by now." The words felt like a confession, even though I had never stopped thinking it. Even when I had convinced myself to hope, deep down, I had always known the truth. Melody wasn't coming back. I just didn't know why.

Dexter leaned forward slightly, his fingers laced together. "Did Melody have a laptop?"

I nodded, rubbing my temple. "Yeah, she had two. One for work and a personal laptop. The work one was locked down tight--firm-issued, encrypted. She never used it for anything other than casework. Her personal one was just... normal. Music, emails, photos, whatever." I exhaled, already anticipating where this was going. "But I don't have them. After everything happened, I sent all of her stuff to her parents. That was six years ago."

Marisha made a quick note, but Dexter didn't react right away. He just studied me like he was waiting for something. "You sent everything?" he asked after a beat.

"Yes," I said firmly, leaning back in my chair. "Beth and Scott wanted it, and I wasn't going to fight them on it. Clothes, books, her laptop, everything she left behind--I packed it all up and had it delivered to them." I crossed my arms. "If you want her laptop, you'll have to ask them."

Salomon, who had been mostly silent through this line of questioning, finally spoke. "Do you know if they ever accessed it?"

I scoffed. "No idea. They weren't exactly speaking to me by that point." I shook my head, feeling a bitter edge creeping into my voice. "But if there was anything on there--anything--that could've helped find her, don't you think they would have brought it up before now?"

Marisha tapped her pen against her notebook, but this time, she wasn't writing.

"What is it?" I asked.

She glanced at Dexter, then back at me. "It just doesn't add up."

"What doesn't?"

She hesitated as if debating whether or not to say it. "You've spent six years in exile, convinced the world thinks you're guilty. So why does it feel like you never stopped looking for her?"

That caught me off guard.

I opened my mouth to throw back some flippant response, but nothing came.

Instead, I sighed and looked away. "Because I haven't."

She didn't write that down.

I sighed, trying to pull the memories from a part of my mind I hadn't touched in years. "She had a Gmail account--just her name, nothing complicated. She was on Facebook, but she didn't post much. Mostly used it to keep up with college friends. I think she had an Instagram too, but she barely touched it. She wasn't the type to share every detail of her life online." I paused, thinking harder. "She also had a LinkedIn account. Standard stuff for networking. I don't know if she had anything else."

Dexter jotted something down before looking back at me. "Did you have access to any of these?"

I shook my head. "No. I mean, I knew her email address, but I didn't have her password or anything. We trusted each other. She had her life, I had mine." I ran a hand down my face. "After she disappeared, I tried logging into some of her accounts--just to see if there was something--but everything was locked. I didn't know her security questions or recovery info, and I wasn't about to guess."

Marisha nodded, flipping back through her notes. "And when you sent her belongings to her parents, you didn't check if she was still logged into anything?"

I let out a dry laugh. "No, I didn't go snooping through her things. I was grieving, not playing detective." I met her gaze, my voice edged with frustration. "Like I said, if there was anything useful on her laptop or accounts, Beth and Scott would've found it. And if they did find something, they sure as hell never told me."

Dexter closed his notebook and tucked it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "That's all for now," he said, his tone as steady as ever. "We appreciate your time."

Marisha followed suit, slipping her pen into her notebook before standing. "We'll be in touch if we need anything else," she added, giving me a glance that lingered just a second too long--like she was still sizing me up, still calculating.

Salomon was the last to rise. He straightened his jacket, offering a polite nod. "Merci, Monsieur Brooks." His voice was calm, but I could tell he wasn't done with me either.

I stood up, watching as they made their way toward the door. My entire body was tense, the exhaustion of the last hour settling into my bones. "Yeah," I muttered. "Sure." I didn't bother walking them out. They knew the way.

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving me in heavy silence. I ran a hand over my face, exhaling slowly. I knew this wasn't over. Not by a long shot. The past had found me again, and this time, it wasn't letting go.

The next night's concert was a triumph. Mahler's Third Symphony was a grueling, emotional piece, but ss the final notes of Mahler's Third swelled through the hall, I felt it--not peace, not forgiveness, but something close to defiance. They could take my home, my career, my past. But this? The music? They would never take this.

The applause thundered through the concert hall, but I wasn't listening. I was remembering what it felt like to be untouchable--if only for a moment.

After changing out of my concert attire, I stepped out of the musician's exit, expecting the usual quiet--the hum of Paris at night, the distant murmur of patrons leaving the concert hall.

Instead, she was there.

Marisha Baxter stood just beyond the streetlight's glow, arms folded, her dress elegant but understated. Out of uniform. Out of place.

My steps slowed. "Agent Baxter. You blending in, or tailing me?"

A flicker of amusement crossed her face. "Would you believe me if I said neither?"

"Waiting for someone?" I asked, stuffing my hands in my coat pocket.

"Yes."

I raised an eyebrow. "FBI business or something more interesting?"

A slow, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "Can't it be both?"

That was new. The agent I met in my apartment had been all business. But here, under the streetlights, she was something else--sharper, but also... lighter.

I studied her. The last time we spoke, she was interrogating me. Now, she was here, alone, with no badge, no agenda--or so she wanted me to think.

"Alright," I said. "Let's walk."

Then she tilted her head slightly. "And maybe an escort to my hotel. It's not far, and I'd rather not walk alone."

I hesitated, considering my options. I could say no, brush past her and head home. But something about her presence intrigued me--an FBI agent who had spent the last night grilling me about my past now wanted casual conversation? That was unexpected.

"Fine," I said, exhaling. "Lead the way."

As we walked, she didn't press me with any more questions about Melody or my past. Instead, she kept the conversation light, steering it toward the concert. I found myself talking about Mahler's Third Symphony, about how it was one of the most intense, emotionally demanding works ever written. I told her how the piece evolved from nature's awakening to an overwhelming celebration of life and love, and for a while, I almost forgot who she was, almost forgot why she was here.

When we reached her hotel, Marisha slowed her pace and turned to face me. The warm glow of the streetlights cast soft shadows across her face, making her look less like an FBI agent and more like someone simply enjoying a quiet Parisian evening. "Thanks for the company," she said, her voice lighter than I had ever heard it.

I gave her a small nod, shoving my hands into my coat pockets. "No problem," I replied. "Try not to get lost in all the excitement of federal investigations tomorrow."

She smirked, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. "I'll do my best." Then, without another word, she turned and walked into the hotel lobby, disappearing past the revolving doors.

I stood there for a moment longer than I should have, then shook my head and started making my way back home. The streets were quieter now, the occasional laughter from a nearby café drifting through the crisp night air. As I walked, I realized something--it had been a long time since I had enjoyed a conversation with someone not in the orchestra. A conversation that wasn't about music, rehearsals, or the suffocating weight of my past. It wasn't much, but it was... something.

By the time I reached my flat, the weight of the day had settled into my bones, but for once, it didn't feel so suffocating. I wasn't naive--Marisha was still FBI, still investigating me, and this wasn't some innocent chance encounter. But for one night, I had managed to step outside of my own story, outside of the shadows that had been following me for six years. And that, in itself, felt like a small victory.

The next few days passed in a haze of routine--rehearsals, performances, late-night walks through the city when sleep refused to come. I forced myself to focus on the music, to let it consume me the way it always had, but something had shifted. No matter how much I tried to lose myself in the routine, there was always an underlying tension, a lingering thought that the past wasn't done with me yet.

That feeling was confirmed when my phone rang one afternoon. I glanced at the screen and saw an unfamiliar number, but something in my gut told me exactly who it was before I even answered.

"Brooks," I said, keeping my voice even.

"Monsieur Brooks," came the familiar French accent. Zacharie Salomon. "I'd like you to come down to the Paris National Police headquarters tomorrow morning at ten."

My grip on the phone tightened. "For what?"

Salomon's voice was calm, businesslike. "The FBI has a few more questions."

I exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of my neck. "I thought we already went over this."

"They'd like to go over a few details again."

Of course they did. I glanced out the window, watching the people below move through the streets, unaware of the storm that was quietly gathering around me. I considered refusing, telling him I had nothing else to say--but I knew that wouldn't stop them. If they wanted to talk, they'd find a way to make me.

"Fine," I said after a long pause. "I'll be there."

Salomon thanked me, and the line went dead. I stared at the phone for a moment before setting it down. So much for moving on.

Sleep was a joke that night. Every time I closed my eyes, my mind refused to settle. Thoughts of Melody, of the past, of whatever the hell the FBI really wanted from me churned through my head, keeping me on edge. When I did manage to doze off, it was fitful--flashes of memories distorted by time and anxiety. I woke up feeling worse than when I had gone to bed. But I had no choice. I had an appointment to keep.

The next morning, I arrived at the Paris National Police headquarters a few minutes before ten. The building was just as cold and impersonal as I had expected--gray walls, buzzing fluorescent lights, officers moving briskly through the halls. A uniformed officer led me down a hallway and into a nondescript interview room. Plain table, two chairs, a single overhead light. It wasn't exactly inviting. He told me to wait there, and then I was alone.

And I waited. For an hour.

By the time Dexter and Marisha finally walked in, I was already irritated. I sat up straight, arms crossed, as they closed the door behind them. "Nice of you to finally show up," I muttered.

Dexter sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "Yeah, sorry about that. We're new to Paris, and we got lost."

I stared at him, unimpressed. "You're FBI. Don't you have GPS?"

Marisha smirked slightly, but Dexter ignored the comment and pulled out his notebook. "Look, we just need to go over a few things again. You know how this works."

I exhaled sharply, still annoyed but willing to get it over with. "Fine. What do you want?"

Dexter flipped through a few pages before landing on something specific. "Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Melody?"

I shook my head. "No. I mean, we fought, but that's not the same thing. And she never mentioned anyone threatening her."

Marisha tilted her head. "And when you last saw her, do you remember what she was wearing?"

I frowned, trying to recall that last morning. "Uh... dark jeans, I think. A gray sweater. Nothing unusual. She was on her way to work."

Dexter nodded, making a note. "Anyone in her life that wasn't on the list of known friends or contacts?"

I shrugged. "Not that I know of. She kept work and personal life pretty separate."

They continued with a few more questions, all things I had answered before. I knew this was routine, but I also knew they weren't just here to wrap up loose ends. They were looking for something. I just didn't know what.

Dexter closed his notebook with an almost casual motion.

"We'd like you to come back to the States with us," he said, as if he were inviting me on vacation. "Walk us through the last few days before Melody disappeared."

I let out a sharp laugh. "That's bullshit."

Silence.

"You don't need me for that," I continued, leaning forward now. "You have my statements. You have six years of reports. So why don't we skip the games and get to the part where you tell me what you really want?"

Marisha didn't blink. Dexter's expression remained neutral.

And that's when I knew.

This wasn't about walking through a timeline. It was about getting me back on U. S. soil.

Dexter exhaled and turned to Marisha, giving her a small nod. She hesitated for a beat, then looked at me. "Melody's laptop is missing."

I frowned. "What?"

"Her parents say you never sent it to them," she continued, her tone careful, measured.

I blinked, my irritation flaring into outright frustration. "That's not true. I sent everything. Clothes, books, her laptop--it all went to them. I don't know what they did with it, but I damn well sent it."

Marisha didn't argue. Instead, she pushed forward. "We want your permission to search your storage unit back in Boston."

I narrowed my eyes. "You think I kept it?"

"We want to be thorough," she said, ignoring the accusation in my voice.

I let out a dry laugh. "You don't need me to go back for that," I said, shaking my head. "What you want is to get me back in the U. S. under your jurisdiction."

Marisha didn't deny it. "Boston PD and the DA want you back. But they can't get a federal warrant because the French government won't honor a local municipality's request."

My jaw clenched. "So that's it? A setup." My pulse spiked, my hands curling into fists. "You're dragging me back into this mess. No. I'm not going. I left for a reason, and I'm not walking back into that mess just because you people need a scapegoat."

Dexter, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke up. "That's not what's happening," he said, his voice firm. "Look, Alex--we don't think you had anything to do with Melody's disappearance. That's why the federal prosecutor won't sign off on a warrant. They don't believe there's enough to charge you with anything. But Boston PD? The DA? They're under pressure. They want you back. And if they ever find a way to make that happen, you might not have a choice."

I exhaled sharply, my hands curling into fists under the table. Six years. Six years of trying to move forward, and it was all circling back to the same nightmare. And now, I had a choice to make--one that could cost me everything.

I let out a slow breath, staring at the table for a long moment. Every instinct in me screamed to say no, to tell them to shove it and walk out of this damn room. But I knew this wouldn't go away. If I refused, they'd just find another way to keep this hanging over my head. If I wanted any shot at putting this behind me, I had to face it. Even if it meant walking straight into the lion's den.

"Fine," I said finally, my voice tight. "I'll do it. If this is what it takes to get past this, I'll go back." I let out a humorless chuckle. "But if this turns out to be some setup, and I end up in cuffs, at least I got to play one last time."

Marisha tilted her head slightly, watching me, but I didn't miss the flicker of something in Dexter's expression. A hesitation.

I turned to Marisha, forcing a smirk. "Hope you enjoyed the concert, Agent Baxter. Probably my last one."

Dexter shot her a look, his jaw tightening slightly, like he was just now realizing she had been there. Marisha met his gaze but didn't say anything. That was interesting. Maybe she had been playing some kind of angle, or maybe she was just curious. Either way, it didn't matter. I had made my decision. One way or another, this was finally going to end.

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

The hum of the plane engines was steady, almost hypnotic, but I wasn't anywhere near relaxed. Forty-eight hours after agreeing to go back, I was wedged into a too-tight economy seat, hurtling toward Boston, the city I had sworn never to return to.

Dexter was sound asleep to my right, his large frame leaning slightly against the window, while Marisha sat to my left, quietly jotting notes in a small, worn notebook. I had tried to distract myself with an in-flight movie, but my mind kept drifting, unable to shake the weight of where I was headed.

Without a word, Marisha reached for her napkin, scribbled something on the back, and slid it onto my tray table. I glanced at her, but she kept her eyes forward, her expression unreadable.

Curious, I picked up the napkin and read the short message: Don't mention our meeting outside the concert.

I frowned and grabbed my pen, flipping the napkin over before writing back: Why? I slid it back to her.

She barely glanced at me before writing another response and passing it back: Wanted to see if you acted differently outside of questioning.

I scrawled my reply: So? Did I pass your little test?

She lifted a brow, tapped the pen against her notebook, then wrote back: Jury's still out.

I smirked and flipped the napkin over. I'll take that as a maybe.

This time, she didn't write back right away. Instead, she sat back, crossed her arms, and looked at me with something unreadable in her expression. "You ever think about coming back?"

"Why? Planning a homecoming parade?"

"Just wondering if the ghost act ever gets old."

She said it lightly, but there was something there. An understanding. A flicker of something unspoken.

I should've shut it down. Instead, I scribbled one last note. Depends. Are you offering to haunt me?

Her laugh was quiet but real, covering her mouth as if she hadn't meant to let it slip. Dexter stirred in his sleep, shifting slightly, but didn't wake. She shot me a warning look before shaking her head, her amusement still lingering in her eyes.

For the first time on this damn flight, I didn't feel like I was suffocating. Maybe it was the banter, maybe it was the momentary distraction, or maybe it was just the ridiculousness of passing notes like kids in school. Whatever it was, it made the flight back to my worst nightmare just a little more bearable.

The moment we landed in Boston, the weight of the city settled on my chest like a heavy stone. The airport was the same as I remembered--bustling, impersonal, a sea of people moving too fast to care about the past.

Dexter handled everything, arranging a hotel for me and giving me the details as if this were just another business trip. "We'll be back in the morning," he said, handing me a room key. "Get some rest."

Easier said than done.

The hotel room was standard--neutral tones, impersonal furniture, a window overlooking the city skyline. Nothing here felt familiar. Neither did the past. Neither did this version of me. I tossed my bag on the chair, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. My body was exhausted, but my mind refused to shut down. Not about Melody, not about the investigation. Instead, my thoughts drifted somewhere else--someone else.

I thought about Marisha.

Not in a way--not in the way I should've been thinking about an FBI agent investigating me.

But in the way she had laughed on the plane, the way she had hesitated just slightly before pushing another question.

In the way she had watched me--like she wasn't just trying to solve a case. Like she was trying to figure me out.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't know whether I wanted to be understood or left alone.

The next morning, Dexter and Marisha arrived at the hotel right on time. I had barely gotten any sleep, but I wasn't about to let them see that. As we climbed into the car, the ride was mostly silent at first, the weight of where we were going settling over all of us. Boston felt the same--too familiar, too claustrophobic, filled with ghosts I didn't want to confront.

Dexter, ever the one to try and keep things civil, glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "How you holding up?" he asked. "I know this isn't exactly where you want to be."

I sighed, leaning against the car door as I watched the streets pass by. "I'm getting by," I muttered. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. Being here felt like standing on a fault line, waiting for the ground to crack open.

When we pulled up to the storage facility, I was hit with an unexpected wave of hesitation. It had been years since I had set foot here. Years since I had locked away everything that reminded me of my old life. I stepped up to the unit, entered the combination, and with a deep breath, the rolling metal door groaned as I pulled it open. A rush of stale air hit me--the scent of dust and old memories. Stacked boxes, crates of vinyl records, my old phonograph. A museum of a life I no longer lived.

Dexter and Marisha stepped in behind me.

"You sure you haven't been here since you left?" Marisha asked.

I shook my head. "Haven't had a reason to."

I crouched by an old wooden crate, flipping through my records, needing something--anything--to anchor myself. My fingers brushed over Miles Davis' Kind of Blue. Melody's favorite.

The record sleeve felt bulkier than it should have. I pulled it out--and something fluttered to the ground.

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.

To be continued