The room waited. The silence was heavy, expectant.
Jenna's request hung in the air like a bad smell. She wanted a pop song. Something trite. Something to reduce Elida to a jukebox.
Elida looked at her through the eyeholes of her lace mask. She saw the gleam of victory in Jenna's eyes. Jenna thought she had her cornered.
Elida looked at Abraham. He was swirling the amber liquid in his glass, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. He was waiting to see if she would fold.
She placed her hands on the keys.
She didn't play Jenna's song.
She hit a low, discordant chord. A C-minor that rumbled in the chest cavities of everyone in the front row.
She began to play Strange Fruit.
But not the standard version. She played it with a violent, aggressive tempo. The notes were sharp, biting.
She leaned into the microphone.
She opened her mouth and sang.
Her voice was husky, roughened by exhaustion and suppressed rage. She didn't sing it pretty. She sang it like an accusation.
"Southern trees bear strange fruit..."
The chatter in the back of the room died instantly.
She stared directly at the VIP booth as she sang. She turned the lyrics into a weapon. The "blood on the leaves" became the blood on the contract Abraham tried to buy her with. The "black bodies swinging" became the way the rich dangled people like her for sport.
Jenna's smile faltered. She looked around, realizing the mood had shifted from party to funeral. She looked foolish standing there in her sparkling dress while Elida poured darkness into the room.
Abraham stopped drinking. He set his glass down. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
He recognized the anger. He didn't know the face, but he knew the rage.
She finished the song with a single, high note that cut off abruptly, leaving a ringing silence.
For three seconds, no one moved.
Then, the applause started. It wasn't polite. It was thunderous.
She stood up. She didn't bow to the audience. She curtsied, mockingly, to Jenna.
Jenna turned red. She opened her mouth to scream something, but Abraham's hand shot out, gripping her wrist.
"Sit down," she heard him say. His voice was low, dangerous. "You've done enough."
Elida turned and walked off the stage, her legs trembling.
Blackwood was waiting in the wings. "Holy shit, V. That was... intense."
"I need a break," she gasped.
She pushed past him into the dressing room.
In the VIP booth, Mercer leaned over Abraham's shoulder. He placed a tablet on the table.
"Sir," Mercer whispered. "The serial number on the twenty-dollar bill you found this morning."
Abraham looked at the screen.
"It was dispensed from a bodega in Queens yesterday afternoon," Mercer said. "And the specific cocktail in the syringe... the formulation matches the private files on 'The Surgeon'."
Abraham stared at the report. Then he looked at the empty piano bench.
The pianist. The refusal of the money. The twenty dollars.
It all clicked.
His entire body tensed, knuckles white on the armrest of his chair. A low growl escaped his lips, a sound of pure frustration and dawning realization.
Jenna gasped. "Abe? Are you alright?"
"Stay here," he ordered.
He wheeled his chair with sharp, aggressive movements toward the backstage door, Mercer flanking him.
Elida was already in the alley.
She had ripped off the mask and thrown her coat over her dress. The cold night air felt good against her heated skin.
She walked fast toward the subway station.
A black SUV screeched to a halt at the mouth of the alley, blocking her path.
The rear door opened.
Mercer stepped out.
"Miss Adkins," he said. He wasn't holding a weapon, but his stance was a blockade.
"Get out of my way, Mercer."
"The boss wants a word."
"I don't work for him anymore."
"It's about the tip," Mercer said, his face impassive. "He says twenty dollars was... insufficient."
She reached into her pocket, gripping the canister of pepper spray.
"Tell him to keep the change."
She tried to step around him.
Mercer moved, blocking her again. "Please, Elida. Don't make me put you in the car."
