"I can't do this, Elida. Frank is furious."
Maya stood in the kitchen doorway, wringing her hands. Behind her, her husband was shouting at the TV, but the volume was clearly meant for Elida.
"He says we're not a charity."
Elida zipped up her suitcase. "It's fine, Maya. I found a place."
"You did? Where?"
"Queens. A sublet."
It was a lie. She had a viewing in an hour for a basement unit that looked like a crime scene in the photos, and she had just enough cash for the deposit if she pawned her watch.
Two hours later, she was standing in a room with one window that looked out onto a brick wall. It smelled of damp earth.
"Take it or leave it," the landlord grunted.
"I'll take it."
She dropped her bags and looked at the text message from yesterday. The Onyx Room.
It was a high-end jazz lounge in Chelsea. Members only. No phones. No names.
She walked in through the service entrance at 9:30 PM.
The manager, a man named Blackwood with a scar running through his eyebrow, looked her up and down.
"You the one who texted?"
"Yes."
"Can you play?"
Elida sat at the Steinway in the corner. She didn't play Mozart. She played a dissonant, jazz improvisation of a nursery rhyme. Dark. Complex.
Blackwood nodded. "You're hired. But you wear a mask. All the staff do. It's the gimmick."
He handed her a black, lace masquerade mask.
By 11:00 PM, the lounge was full. The lighting was dim, amber and smoky. She sat at the piano, her face hidden, her fingers moving over the keys like they were breathing.
Then the air in the room changed.
The heavy oak doors swung open.
Abraham Crane rolled in.
He was in a fresh suit, looking impeccable. No sign of the overdose from last night.
And pushing him was a woman she vaguely recognized as Camille's cousin, Jenna.
She was wearing a white dress that sparkled under the low lights, looking like a diamond in a coal mine. She was beaming, leaning down to whisper something in Abraham's ear.
Her hands faltered on the keys for a fraction of a second. She recovered, transitioning into a minor chord.
They were seated at the VIP booth, directly to her right. ten feet away.
She kept her head down, focusing on the keys.
"Champagne," she heard Jenna's voice. High-pitched. Demanding. "The Krug."
Abraham wasn't looking at her. He was scanning the room. His eyes landed on the piano. On her.
She felt his gaze like a physical touch. He couldn't know it was her. The mask covered half her face. Her hair was pinned up.
A young man in a tailored suit, clearly drunk on Wall Street bonuses, leaned against the piano.
"Hey, beautiful," he slurred, reaching out to touch her bare shoulder. "Do you take requests?"
She didn't look up. "No touching the talent."
He laughed, his hand sliding down toward her arm.
She didn't think. She lifted the fallboard-the heavy wooden cover over the keys-and let it drop.
CRACK.
It caught the tip of his finger.
He screamed.
The music stopped. The room went silent.
"My hand! She broke my hand!" the man wailed, clutching his finger.
Security moved in instantly.
She sat perfectly still, lifting the cover back up.
Abraham was watching. He wasn't horrified. He looked... interested.
Jenna stood up, looking for the source of the drama. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Elida.
She walked over, her heels clicking on the hardwood.
She stopped at the piano. She leaned in, staring at the side of Elida's neck.
There was a small mole behind her ear. A birthmark Jenna used to make fun of when they were kids.
Jenna's eyes widened. A slow, cruel smile spread across her face.
She grabbed the microphone from the stand.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Jenna announced, her voice amplifying through the speakers. "Since we have such a... passionate pianist tonight, I have a request."
She looked directly at Elida.
"Play something we can all understand," she hissed, off-mic. "Something simple. For simple people."
Abraham frowned, sensing the shift in tension.
"Jenna," he warned.
"Oh, come on, darling," she said, turning to him. "Let's hear what the help can do."
