Chapter 2 - THE MAN IN THE DOORWAY
The music room door exploded against the wall.
Meline’s hands flew from the keys.
A man stood in the doorway.
Barefoot.
White shirt hanging open at the throat.
Dark hair disordered.
One hand pressed against the side of his skull.
Garrison Vance.
Meline had seen him only twice during her eleven days at the estate.
Once crossing the front hall surrounded by men in suits.
Once through the glass doors of his study.
Both times, he had looked exactly like the stories people told about him.
Controlled.
Untouchable.
Dangerous.
The man standing before her now looked nothing like that.
His face was drained of color.
His breathing came too fast.
A vein pulsed beside his temple.
“Stop.”
Meline immediately stood.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Vance. The door was open and—”
“No.”
His fingers tightened against his skull.
“Don’t stop.”
She stared.
Garrison took one unsteady step into the room.
“Play it again.”
Meline looked toward the piano.
“I shouldn’t have been in here.”
“Play.”
The word came out rough.
Not an order born from arrogance.
A plea wearing the shape of one.
Meline sat again.
Her hands trembled as she found the opening notes.
The melody began.
Garrison closed his eyes.
Something extraordinary happened.
His shoulders lowered.
The tension in his jaw loosened.
His hand slowly dropped from his head.
Meline continued.
Eight measures.
Sixteen.
The storm rolled beyond the windows.
But inside the room, the only thing that mattered was the unfinished melody.
Then she reached the final section her mother had never completed.
Her fingers stopped.
Garrison’s eyes opened.
“Why?”
Meline swallowed.
“That’s where it ends.”
“No.”
He moved closer.
“There’s more.”
“The music stops there.”
“No.”
His voice changed.
“I heard the rest.”
Meline stared at him.
“When?”
He looked toward the sheet music.
For several seconds, he seemed unable to speak.
Then:
“The night my wife died.”
Meline’s skin prickled.
Behind them came fast footsteps.
Bennett Shaw appeared first.
Then Emmett Kerr.
Then Sloan Whitaker.
All three men froze.
Bennett looked horrified.
“Meline.”
It was the first time anyone inside the mansion had called her by name.
“What are you doing?”
Garrison turned.
“She stays.”
Bennett stopped.
Emmett stared at the piano.
Then at Meline.
Something in his face changed.
Recognition.
Tiny.
Quick.
But Meline saw it.
So did Garrison.
“What?” Garrison asked.
Emmett blinked.
“What what?”
“You looked at her.”
“She’s an employee sitting in Lydia’s room.”
Lydia.
Garrison’s wife.
The name hung in the air.
Sloan stepped forward.
“Garrison, perhaps we should get you upstairs.”
“I’m standing.”
“You’ve had an episode.”
“I know.”
“Dr. Halpern specifically said—”
“I know what he said.”
Garrison looked back at Meline.
“Play the first eight measures.”
She obeyed.
Garrison listened.
No hand against his skull.
No violent reaction.
Nothing.
When she stopped, he looked at Sloan.
“The sound is gone.”
Sloan’s face remained composed.
“What sound?”
“The ringing.”
Emmett exhaled.
“Garrison—”
“It has been inside my head for three years.”
Meline stared.
Garrison continued.
“High tone. Then metal. Then three notes.”
He looked at her.
“Your melody interrupts it.”
Meline’s heart began beating faster.
“My mother wrote this.”
Every person in the room became still.
Garrison turned slowly.
“What?”
Meline pointed toward the sheet music.
“The handwriting is my mother’s.”
Emmett spoke first.
“That’s impossible.”
The speed of his answer mattered.
Garrison noticed.
“Why impossible?”
Emmett recovered.
“Because Lydia wrote music.”
“No, she didn’t.”
Silence.
Garrison’s voice became colder.
“She played. She never composed.”
He looked at Meline.
“Your mother’s name.”
“Norah Rhodes.”
The effect was immediate.
Sloan’s expression barely shifted.
Bennett looked confused.
Emmett went pale.
Garrison stared at Meline.
“Say it again.”
“Norah Rhodes.”
Garrison gripped the edge of the piano.
“Your mother is Norah Rhodes?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“Riverbend Memory Care.”
“Why?”
Meline hesitated.
“Early-onset Alzheimer’s.”
Something in Garrison’s face broke.
“You’re Norah’s daughter.”
“You knew her?”
Garrison looked toward the piano.
“No.”
Then more quietly:
“Lydia did.”
Meline stood.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Emmett stepped forward.
“This is enough for tonight.”
Garrison turned.
“No.”
“Your doctor—”
“Stop talking about my doctor.”
For the first time, fear crossed Emmett’s face.
Garrison looked at Bennett.
“Lock this room.”
Bennett nodded.
“No one enters except me and Meline.”
Emmett laughed once.
“You’re trusting a maid you met three minutes ago?”
Garrison’s eyes hardened.
“I’m trusting the only thing that made the noise stop.”
Then he looked at Meline.
“You.”
She swallowed.
“Yes?”
“Come with me.”
Her body stiffened.
Garrison saw it.
He stopped.
“You may refuse.”
That surprised everyone.
Especially Emmett.
Meline thought of her job.
Her mother.
Twenty-seven thousand six hundred dollars.
Then the sheet music.
“I’ll come.”
Garrison led her to his study.
He kept the door open.
Another thing she noticed.
He poured water but did not offer alcohol.
Then he opened a drawer.
Inside were photographs.
Lydia Vance smiled from glossy paper.
Elegant.
Dark-haired.
Alive.
Garrison handed one to Meline.
“Have you seen her before?”
Meline stared.
Something tugged at memory.
Not Lydia herself.
A photograph.
Years ago.
Inside her mother’s desk.
A woman standing beside a piano.
Meline’s breath caught.
“I think so.”
Garrison’s face changed.
“Where?”
“My mother had a photograph.”
“Of Lydia?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you get it?”
“My mother’s belongings are in storage.”
“Where?”
“Berwyn.”
“We’ll go tomorrow.”
“No.”
Garrison stared.
Meline immediately regretted the sharpness.
Then forced herself to continue.
“I’ll go.”
He understood.
Her belongings.
Her mother.
Her choice.
“Fine.”
He sat.
“Tell me about the music.”
“My mother called it The Harbor Piece.”
Garrison went still.
“What?”
“The Harbor Piece.”
He stood so quickly the chair moved backward.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“She wrote it when I was little. Said it was about remembering the way home.”
His breathing changed again.
“Lydia used to say that.”
Meline stared.
“Say what?”
“When she couldn’t finish something, she’d say, ‘You only need enough light to remember the harbor.’”
Silence.
Garrison reached for a drawer.
He pulled out a small black notebook.
Opened it.
On one page, Lydia had written:
IF I FORGET HOW TO GET HOME, FIND NORAH.
Meline’s blood turned cold.
“Your wife knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked toward the hallway.
“Because apparently everyone around me knew things I didn’t.”
His voice carried anger now.
But beneath it lived pain.
Meline asked carefully:
“What happened the night she died?”
Garrison went completely still.
For a long time, she thought he would refuse.
Then he said:
“She came into my study at 11:14 p.m.”
He looked at the clock without seeing it.
“I was on a call.”
“With who?”
“Emmett.”
Meline felt cold.
“Lydia said she needed to tell me something.”
His mouth tightened.
“I said, ‘Not now.’”
The words sounded poisonous in his own mouth.
“She stood there another second.”
“What happened?”
“She left.”
Garrison looked down.
“Ninety seconds later, I heard the car start.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know.”
“What happened to her?”
“Her car went over the barrier on Sheridan Road.”
Meline said nothing.
“They said she was driving too fast in the rain.”
“You believed them?”
“For three years.”
His voice changed.
“Tonight I’m not sure what I believe.”
A knock came.
Bennett stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Vance.”
“What?”
“The generator has stabilized.”
“That doesn’t require interruption.”
Bennett looked toward Meline.
Then back.
“There is something else.”
“What?”
“The pharmacy called.”
Garrison frowned.
“At one in the morning?”
“No, sir.”
Bennett swallowed.
“They called earlier. I forgot to mention it.”
Garrison’s eyes narrowed.
“Mention what?”
“They said your medication refill was collected yesterday.”
“So?”
“You did not collect it.”
“No.”
“Neither did I.”
Silence.
Meline felt the air change.
Garrison stood.
“Who signed?”
Bennett looked deeply uncomfortable.
“Emmett Kerr.”
Garrison’s face became stone.
Then, from somewhere downstairs, glass shattered.
They all turned.
A security alarm began shrieking.
Bennett reached for his radio.
“What happened?”
Static answered.
Then a guard shouted:
“Someone’s inside the music room.”
Garrison ran.
Meline followed.
By the time they reached the east corridor, the forbidden door stood open.
The piano bench had been overturned.
The handwritten sheet music was gone.
May you like
And across the dusty piano lid, someone had written four words with a finger.
NORAH SHOULD HAVE FORGOTTEN.
