CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The notation lit up Ana’s phone while she was reviewing the third movement of her symphony. A news alert from The Daily Chronicle: “Police Reopen Investigation into Marcus Holloway’s Death.”
Her finger howord ever the screen, suddenly numb. The practice room’s silence pressed against her ears as she opened the article.
Detective James Killian’s stem face stated back at her from the webpage. “New evidence has come to light,” he was quoted saying “We’re puning all angles,”
Aria set her phone face–down on the plane, bet reflection fractured in its polished black surface. The practice room had always been her sanctuary, tucked away in the orchestra hall’s east wing. Now its walls felt like they were closing in
She caught movement ihet peripheral vision – someone passing by the practice room’s window. Killian? No, just a janitor Herheart wouldn’t slow down
Her phone buzzed again. A text from Caroline, het FR manager: “Have you seen the news! Call me
Ana’s hands were steady as she dialed, muscle memory from countless performances keeping the tremor inside where no one could see it.
“They can’t just do this.” Caroline’s voler crackled through the speaker. “We need to get ahead of it.”
“Aghed. “ Ana kept her voice level, professional “Set up interviews. Sympathetic outlets only.”
“Already on in The Classical Music Manthly wants to do a piece on your upcoming symphony. We can use that.”
“Perfect. “Ana glanced at the window again. “And Camline? Have security sweep for photographers. I don’t want another tabloid shot.
After hanging up. Arla gathered her sheet music with precise movements. Through the window, she spotted a familiar figure in a dark coat crossing the parking lot. Detective Killian wasn’t even trying to be subtle too.
the took the backrict, her heels clicking against the concrete. Her Mercedes started with a punt, and she pulled out of the lot just as Killian’s unmarked car rounded
the commer
At home, she poured herself two fingers of scotch – Marcus’s brand. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Her apartment felt empty after the grandeur of the Holloway mandon, but it was safer this way. Controlled. Like her music.
Her phone lit up with a message from Michael Chen, the orchestra’s first chair violin..
“Heard about the investigation. You okay?”
Michael had been her first ally when she’d taken over as conductor. He’d seen her potential when others saw only an ambitious young woman reaching beyond her
“I’m fine,” she taped back. “See you at tomorrow’s rehearsal. The second movement needs work.”
She took another sip of scotch, savoring the bum. David hadn’t made a move yet. Maybe he really had taken her threat seriously. The evidence she had on the Holloway family’s tax evasion schemes alone would bury what was left of their empire.
The next moming. Ana arrived at the hall early. She had interviews to conduct–three new violinists to replace Sofia’s position. The thought still sent a chill down bespine, the memory of Soria’s wide eyes as she fell
Martinelli?” Her assistant, Tom, poked his head in “Your first appointment is here. And the board called – they want to dis the investigation.”
Tell them I’m focused on the symphony “Aria straightened her blazer. “They can wait.”
The first candidate was promising–technical precision but no soul. Like Sofia in the beginning Arta dismissed her quickly.
Between appointments, she called Jonathan Hayes, the ants section editor at The Time
“Jonathan, dading” She infused warmth into her voice. “About that profile piece we discussed
“Anal Yes, pedect timing. With all this ugly business about Marnas Holloway-”
“Exactly why we should focus on the music, don’t you think? The symphony debuts next week Wouldn’t that make a lovely centerpiece?”
char could practically hear him salivating at the exclusive. Jonathan had been easy to cultivate – a few private performances, some carefully placed compliments about his “artistic vision.”
The second violin candidate
was better Rachel something. Good presence, strong technique. More importantly, no connection to the Holloways
During lunch, Aria reviewed her diary entry from the night of Marcus’s death. The leather–bound book was her insurance policy, detailed enough to destroy everyone involved but carefully coded to protect herself
She’d written at like music notes Marcus’s thurats becoming coricendas, her calculated responses marked as diminuendos. The tinal confrontation–hashands around her throat, the breaking glass that was the cymbal crash
Her plate buzzed. David
heart skipped, but her fingers remained steady as she typed “Nothing to discuss. Remember what’s at stake
She deleted the message therad immediately. Our less piece of evidence.
The afternoon irratal was intense. Ana drove the orchestraband, channeling her ansety into precision. The percussion section was still a beat behind in the
“Again!” she called out, her baton slicing though the air “From measure tunely right.
Mirharl caught her eye from dizut dair, cotermi evident in his expression. Shri
rignardi.
After rehearsal, she spotted Killian waiting in the lobby. She ducked into her office, calling her lawyer.
Sarah, Treedoptions. They’re reopening the case. “
“Stay calm,” Sarahadvised. “They wouldn’t have announced it it they had anything concrete. It’s probably just pressure from the family.”
Ana opened her laptop, beginning the systematic deletionot emails. Anything connecting her to Marcus or Sofia had to go.
Hei phone buzzedagain – Caroline
“Entertainment Tonight wants an interview. Sympathetic angle, focusing on your rise in the music world and the tragedy of losing your mentor.”
Mentor. That’s how they were spinning Marcus now. Better than lover. Better than victim.
“Book 11,” Aria said. “And Careline? Make sure they mention the symphony. Everything needs to be about the music now.”
she worked late into the evening, her office light the only one still buming in the hall. The diary sat open on her desk as she transcribed the important parts into her phone’s encrypted notes, thenbumed the pages one by one in her metal wastepaper basket.
The smoke curled up like the last notes of her symphony’s finale–a ending she’d composed thinking of Marcus’s fall
When she finally lett, the parking lot was empty except for a dark sedam Killian again. She walked to her car with measured steps, heels echoing in the darkness.
Let him watch. She had twenty–four hours of surveillance footage showing her in rehearsals the night Marcus died. The security company that maintained those tapes was owned by a board member who owed her several takers.
Het phone lit up with a text from the orchestra’s manager “Board meeting tomorrow. They’re concerned about publicity.”
She crafted her response carefully: “The symphony will bring in record crowds. Controversy sells tickets.”
At home, she poured another scotch and reviewed her calendar. Six days until the debut. Sixdays to ensure every loose end was tied up.
Her phone remained silent. No more messagestionu David.
Perhaps he finally understood. She’d learned from his father–power wasn’t about force, it was about leverage. And she had enough leverage to bury them all.
She opened her new diary, a simple black notebook on its first page, she began to write:
“The music builds slowly, like a contebion.
“CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
