“I’m not irresponsible.” She held up her hand before he could argue the point. “That store is a treasure trove.” She told him about the autographed Josephine Baker photograph she’d bought and the Scarlatti manuscript. “I’ve been thinking . . . What if there was something in the store the thief wanted? Maybe even the Scarlatti? Maybe I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“You’re suggesting this was coincidence? A thief decided to burglarize the store at the exact moment you were there instead of walking in like a normal customer, finding what he wanted, and bargaining for it? Are the old man’s prices that high?”
She knew her explanation was far-fetched, but she tried to defend it with a shrug.
Thad bore down. “How much was he charging for that Scarlatti manuscript?”
“I don’t know . . . A couple of hundred,” she muttered.
“Well, there you go. A big prize in the rare manuscript black market.” He plowed his hand through his hair, barely disturbing a single strand. “I know you don’t want to believe you’re a target, Liv, but look at the evidence. Threatening letters, an eerie phone call, the T-shirt, and now this.”
“The only people who hold a grudge against me are Adam’s sisters, and they live in New Jersey. Besides, that wasn’t a woman who attacked me.”
“They could have hired someone, and even you can’t deny that you’re somebody’s target.”
He was right, but she slouched deeper into the couch cushions. “Don’t you have some football buddies in town to go drinking with?”
“I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
She started to tell him she had no need of a bodyguard, but that didn’t exactly seem to be true, so she told him to turn up the volume on the baseball game instead.
“You know anything about baseball?” he asked.
“I’ve watched A League of Their Own at least a dozen times.”
“An authority, then.”
“I’ll explain anything you don’t understand.”
*
As he came out of his room the next morning, The Diva was doing her daily vocalizing. The night before, she’d escaped to her bedroom after the sixth inning, leaving him alone with the remote control, a baseball game he didn’t care about, and his thoughts. When this tour had started two weeks ago, he’d anticipated doing nothing more than what he’d signed up for. Now, here he was, enmeshed in a situation he couldn’t control.
Yesterday had scared the hell out of him. They were leaving for Dallas today. From there they’d travel to Atlanta, Nashville, New York, and Las Vegas, before they ended up in Chicago, where they’d started. A couple of days of events there, followed by a two-week break before his final obligation, attending the Marchand-sponsored Chicago Municipal Opera gala. During that two-week break, Liv would be in rehearsals for Aida, and he’d probably head to Kentucky to visit his parents. No more interviewers asking the same questions, no more packing and unpacking a suitcase. And no more diva.
That didn’t sit well with him. He and The Diva were . . . pals. More than pals. Potential lovers if he had anything to say about it. She was funny and fascinating, stubborn and thoughtful. She knew as much about hard work and career dedication as he did. All he had to do was overcome her entirely rational objections to having an affair.
She’d hit the midpoint in her morning exercises, past the tongue trills and lip rolls, through the eeees and ues. She was on to the nings, and nays, her voice running up and down the scale with ease and brilliance. He’d miss hearing those full, rich sounds first thing in the morning. How was any mortal capable of producing such otherworldly tones? Just once, he wanted her to sing for him. Only for him. “Habanera.”
He wandered across the suite. Her bedroom door was slightly ajar. He lifted his hand and knocked. The door edged open a few inches, enough for him to see her reflection in the mirror above the bureau.
She was brushing her hair. It glided through her fingers like a midnight waterfall. The nays became yahs, every tone round and plush. Soon she’d hit the lahs, his favorite part. He waited, hearing each perfect lah. Except—
Her lips weren’t moving.
The brush swept in a glissade through her hair. Her voice traveled up the scale and down. But her lips didn’t move. Only the hairbrush.
She spotted him in the mirror. A smile flickered across her face for a fraction of a second before it froze. She dropped the hairbrush, made a dash for the door, and pushed it shut, leaving him out in the cold on the other side.
9
Thad took a step back. The closed door told him everything. He pushed it back open.
She stood in the center of the room, hairbrush stalled in midair, her vocalizations playing in the background. “I’m on vocal rest,” she declared. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand, all right, and I’m calling bullshit.”
Her head came up. She looked snooty as all hell. At the same time, vulnerable. “Which is meaningless since you don’t know anything about the human voice.”
“Maybe not, but I know when somebody’s pulling a scam.”
Her chin stayed high. “It’s not a scam!”
Her arrogance was an act. He could feel it, but he didn’t care. “Is that even you singing?”
“Of course it’s me singing!” Her chest heaved as she drew in one of her long breaths. “Even on vocal rest, it’s helpful keeping to a regular routine.”
“That’s crap. And I should have figured it out days ago. Serious singers like you who are on vocal rest aren’t supposed to talk much, isn’t that right? Hardly the case with you.”
She turned her back to him and moved away from the mirror. “I’m not discussing this.”
He was furious. They were friends. Good friends, despite the short time they’d known each other. They’d shared things about themselves. They’d laughed together, insulted each other, nearly frozen to death. The fact that she would mislead him like this felt like the worst kind of betrayal.
“Suit yourself,” he retorted.
Her shoulders sagged.
He turned on his heel and left the room. He was done with her.
*
Heartsick, Olivia sank onto her bed. She’d lost her voice. Not from laryngitis, allergies, polyps, or nodules—nothing was physically wrong—she’d lost it from guilt. And now Thad knew the truth about her.
You let me believe we were forever. You meant everything to me and I meant nothing to you. Why should I keep on living?
The email Adam had sent before he’d killed himself had laid it out, and despite what Rachel said and what the psychologist she’d visited had told her, despite Thad’s opinion on the subject, Olivia knew she was responsible.
Rachel had witnessed the scene at the funeral. She knew Olivia’s singing was suffering, but she didn’t know how badly. Only the doctor she’d seen and Thad knew the truth.
Technically speaking, she had a psychogenic voice disorder. She couldn’t get a full breath when she tried to sing. Her heart would begin to race, and an unnatural, gritty quality distorted the full, rich tones that were her hallmark. Her reliable vibrato had grown unsteady. Without her customary breath support, her tongue fell back, and she strangled her high notes. Worst of all, she sometimes went flat.
She was Olivia Shore. She never went flat. But now she did, and in exactly twenty-five days, she was scheduled to sing Amneris in Aida at the Chicago Municipal Opera.
She jumped up from the side of the bed, the thought of the looming deadline filling her with panic. She was doing breathing exercises and yoga, trying to meditate, and drinking copious amounts of water. After the disastrous drunken night when she’d attacked Thad, she’d restricted herself to a single glass of wine each evening. She’d never smoked, she avoided carbonated beverages, and she drank so much lemon and honey in warm water that she’d forgotten what plain cold water tasted like. She’d hoped this tour would be the distraction she needed to break the cycle she was trapped in, but it only seemed to be making things worse.