Ada practiced her violin for a while, trying to pass the time, but her heart wasn’t in it. She gave up and rested it in her lap, fingering the polished spruce and taut strings. Even though she’d played the old violin her father gave her for longer than this one, she still felt that this violin had always been hers. It was hard to remember a time before she’d known it better than her own two hands.
She placed it back in its case on the coffee table right as the door at the top of the stairs slid open. Saint had returned from the Mythic, and he was more chipper than Ada had seen him in a long time. He was humming a tune as he peeled off his coat and retrieved his sketchbook from his room. From the couch, Ada watched him with a raised eyebrow. He sat in the armchair and gnawed thoughtfully on his pencil for a few seconds before he noticed her.
“Hi,” he said.
“Nice night?”
He shrugged. “Just painting the set for James and Maddy’s next show,” he said. He hunched over his sketchbook, but Ada could see his smile.
“You’d think that being around Corinne for four years would make you a better liar,” she said.
“I don’t want to be a good liar,” he replied, his pencil scratching away.
Ada smiled at the top of his head. His auburn hair was burnished by the warm lamplight and flecked with dried blue paint. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Saint without some trace of paint on his person. There was something comforting about curling up on the sofa, watching as he sketched. She could almost forget how much everything had changed since her arrest. Almost.
“We’re going to Down Street tonight,” she said.
Saint was quiet for a while, and she began to wonder if he’d even heard her.
“I know,” he said at last, glancing up. “But I still don’t understand why.”
“If Carson doesn’t know anything about Johnny’s murder, then maybe the Witcher brothers do.”
Saint tapped his pencil on his knee, frowning in thought. After a few seconds he went back to his sketch without a reply.
“Corinne thinks it’s our best option,” Ada said.
“She’s usually right about these things,” he said absently.
“Usually. You can come with us if you want.”
Saint looked strangely amused at the invitation. “The last time I tagged along, it didn’t end so well.”
Despite the subject still being tender, Ada felt the urge to giggle. Maybe she was more tired than she thought.
“I guess you’re right,” she said. “But doesn’t it drive you mad, waiting around here alone?”
For as long as she’d known him, Saint had spent most of his time in the Cast Iron. He left only when Johnny had a job for him, or when he was visiting James at the Mythic. The rest of the time he was perfectly content to stay home with paintbrush or pencil in hand.
“I like it here,” Saint said, returning to his sketch. “It’s safe.”
He spoke the last so softly that Ada wasn’t sure if she’d heard him right. She waited, but he didn’t say more. He was lost again in his work. After a couple of minutes, the silence got the better of Ada and she stood up. There was a phone call she had been putting off, and she was running out of time to do it.
She went down the hall to Johnny’s office. The electric light buzzed and flickered when she turned it on, before it settled into a dull hum. She sat down in the chair across from the desk and pulled the phone toward her. She told the operator her mother’s number and waited for the line to connect. Her mother answered in a polite, if wary, tone. She wasn’t accustomed to using the phone.
“It’s me, Mama.”
“Ada, what is wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I just . . . wanted to talk to you.”
Ada bit her lip because she didn’t know what else to say. She needed to ask if the two agents were still parked out front, but she didn’t want to frighten her mother.
“I am sorry I was angry at you, Ada,” Nyah said, after a few moments of silence. “I wish we had not fought.”
“It’s my fault,” Ada said. “I wanted to come see you, but I can’t—I can’t get away.”
“I know.”
The way she said it was so solemn and resigned that tears pricked suddenly at Ada’s eyes.
“I have to go,” she said before they could spill. “I love you.”
“Good night, Ada.”
Ada hung up with more force than she intended. She hadn’t even asked about the agents, or if the police had come by. She hadn’t said anything she meant to say.
She swiped her hand across her eyes and picked up the receiver again. She asked the operator to connect her to the Red Cat. A gruff voice answered. Ada could hear the sounds of musicians warming up their instruments in the background. Someone was laughing raucously. It was a normal night there, with music and patrons and clinking glasses. In that moment, it seemed so far away from the deathly silence of the Cast Iron that Ada was disoriented. The voice spoke again, even gruffer this time.
“Is Charlie Lewis there?” she asked before he could hang up.
The sounds became muffled, like he was covering the mouthpiece with his hand. Ada held the receiver away from her ear during the ensuing scrapes and clatters and muted shouts. When Charlie answered, he was out of breath.
“Hello?”
“Hello.”
“Hey there, Ada.”
Ada leaned forward in her chair and rested her elbows on the desk. The knot in her chest loosened, if only slightly.
“Are you busy?” she asked.