My hands glide over the keys. The feel of ivory, so comforting and familiar, fills me with warmth. The audience is silent, drenched in a hush of astonishment at the musical prodigy, me. A raven lock falls from my ear and in the mist of my symphony, there’s no way to return it to its original perfection.

The music builds and my fingers strain to confidently hit the octaves and ninths of Fate. The notes rush into a cascade of powerful fortissimos flowing into a joyous, flowering melody.

My fingers return dramatic chords and soft, twinkling sounds which fly effortlessly from memory. In the crowd a small child claps with enthusiasm, I laugh in my heart, yet it does not travel to my determinedly cold expression.

I lean forward as the piece builds toward a grand ending. Beethoven was truly a genius; this fact shows greatly in this, arguably his most famous work. My arms jump and exaggerate the effort used in the gargantuan chords and as my fingers press the last resonating keys my heart floods with joy and relief.

I stand and a cascade of thunderous applause ensues. Bowing, the torrent of noise grows into a standing ovation. My brother, Dietrich, reminds me to smile; he sits in the front row and with a mischievous glint in his eyes, pulls the corners of his mouth upwards with his thumb and index finger. I blush and grin at Dietrich’s less than subtle teasing.

I hear a clacking whoosh as the large and classically red theater curtains close. As I look out at the audience one last time I see parents, brothers and several of my music tutors as well as journalists and critics. The curtains are now closed and they give a soft rustle. I smile; a perfect performance.

I write in another full note, trying to complete my next composition. The song’s melody is fully formed in my mind, but like all the others copying it from my mind onto a manuscript is certainly the hardest part.

Picking up my violin, I play the first couple pages of what I am tentatively calling frost. Closing my eyes, I bask in the violin’s mournful strain. I close my eyes and lose myself in thought.

I hear the quiet and delicate hard clink of falling snow. A soft, feather like blanket, descending from winter clouds. Focusing intently on the precise movements used in playing this instrument; I concentrate further on this string of thought.

Numbing cold eating away at my nose, ears, fingers, and my skin prickled with icy gooseflesh. The clean crunch and fresh taste of snow. No smell, ice has no sent.

The song ends and sound fades. My eyes snap open, the thoughts dissipating like their subject on a hot summer’s day. Putting the violin in its case, I place it on its designated shelf and walk into my bathroom to get ready for bed. There’s a small hand print on the upper right-hand corner of my otherwise spotless mirror.

I do an about face and march out of my room with an air of purpose, down the hall and towards the door of my little brother, Pierre’s room. I knock on the door; his bedtime was a half hour ago, but I can still see light shining into the hallway from under the door.

“Pierre?” I ask with calm sternness.

“What do you want?” his tired, contralto voice snaps.

“Why were you in my room?”

There’s a condemning silence before a pale, freckled face appears in the doorway, now open, if only slightly.

“I-I wasn’t in… your room.” As Pierre says this his blond head is continually cast downward, and his cobalt eyes will not meet my glare.

“If you weren't in my room,” I say with subtle amusement, “then why is there a child-sized hand print on my vanity mirror.

He stands tall and puffs out his chest “Prove it’s mine!”

“If it’s not yours, then whose is it?”

“Prove it mine!”

I sigh and run back toward my room, grab my camera from the top of my chest of drawers and take three pictures of the bathroom mirror. Three, clear close up pictures of whorled fingerprints. Mother had the family fingerprinted several years ago, after something that is now only part a of family legend that is rarely if ever talked about and gave each of us copies, four loops, one arch and Pierre’s whorl.

So unless Pierre’s long lost twin brother broke into my room, but for some inexplicable reason left the rest of the house completely unscathed, Pierre had gone into my room to get or do something and I want to know why. A sudden deathly calm descends over the room. My vision blurs in waves as if I had just stood up quickly, then my sight snaps back to clarity. That’s very odd. I wonder what caused that. It must mean something. I want to analyze why my vision went dark, but my thoughts are rudely interrupted.

There’s a knock on the door; I open it and Dietrich stands there with a large, light blue envelope.

“You-Have- Mail.” he says in a robotic voice. He hands me the envelopes “Your concert was awesome, “he yawns, “I have to go to bed.”

“Thanks,” I say, smiling. He walks down the hallway, I close the door and open the letter, it’s from Renée I know this without opening the letter because Renée rarely uses email, it’s too impersonal, oh and not to mention the distinctive blue envelope, they’re the only ones she uses, besides, Ian lives right next door and Mellissa would never communicate any thing so primitive as paper. She’s like that so much that everyone calls her Del Mel computer genius and programming extraordinaire, actually only three people call her that and it is usually sarcasm but sometimes she's called Del Mel for short.

I opened the letter, careful not to tear the edges, and read through the flowering scrawls of handwriting.

Dear Adelaide,

As you know Mel’s surprise party is tomorrow, you are in charge of bringing the decorations (pink, black and white as we’ve discussed) and of course music. I’ve also invited all her closest friends: Ian, Dietrich, Stephen, Edward, Sophia, Jennifer, Morgan, Ivy and of course us. You’ve known her a lot longer than I have, please let me know if there’s someone I’ve missed. I would hate for people she cares about not come because I was too forgetful to inform them. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow, what’s it been, a week? Dress up too, don’t worry, we three are taking Mel to that fancy French restaurant on West Point Ave. Les livres et le fleur, so she won’t feel out of place when she comes back home to 50+ friends, neighbors and relatives dressed in evening wear. Also, please try not to look creepy, you have a tendency to make odd faces at parties, it freaks people out. Well, I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow and have a nice morning or afternoon or evening, I can never tell when exactly you’re going to get one of my letters. ☺

Your friend forever, Renée S. Clark.

After I talk to Pierre I know I’ll have to do a lot of planning on the decorations, but I keep thinking about the one sentence in that letter about being creepy at parties, I know I’m creepy, at least to most people, I don’t smile that often, I say little more than what is needed ,and my default expression is a scowl. But I’m very sure Renée, and I have never been to a party together, honestly I can't remember the last time I've been to one, so why would she think I’m creepy at parties? She’s probably just assuming based on my reactions to other social situations, and I am.

I place the letter on my desk and continue down the hall with my camera. Once again, I stand in front of Pierre’s room and knock.

“What is it now?” He is no longer irritated, he sounds scared or a bit angry.

“I’ve got evidence.” I reply. I hear a yawn from behind the door, and it swings open sharply.

“What evidence?” I show him the picture on my camera, and his face turns red.

“I didn’t go in your room!” His every word is a snap now “and that doesn’t prove a thing!”

“Pierre,” I say,” you could argue with anyone about anything.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“You just proved my point.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Why do I even try to reason with my brother? we need a third party to straighten this out.

“I’m going downstairs.” I say.

“Why?” His argumentative defiance has melted away into puppy dog innocence; false innocence is most likely.

“I’m going to talk to Mom.” I reply coldly, attempting to beat down my welling amusement.

“What? No!”

“Why not?”

“J-Just because.”

“Would you rather I talked to dad?”

I turned the corner in the hallway and walked down the stairs without hearing his reply. As I walked downstairs, I can see my parents in the living room, sitting next to each other on a white couch. Mother is holding a cup of Irish tea the color of her eyes which watch father intently as he reads to her about Hamlet’s descent into madness, this is her favorite book, though technically it’s a play, one our family watched two years ago.

I am halfway down the stairs when the home phone rings; father rushes to get it and answers.

“Hello.”

“Yes, this is Julian Volkov.”

I stop at the bottom of the stairs; he hasn’t left the room, so I politely wait for the call to end.

“Wait, how did this happen?”

Pierre rushes down the stairs but stops where I am. He nods at father and looks up at me expectantly. I shrug my shoulders and again turn my attention to the conversation.

“Yes, I know you’re still investigating, but was it murder or an accident?”

My eyes widen, who are they talking about?

“Suicide, it couldn’t have been.”

Our father’s face is ashen, and my curiosity is burning.

“All right, thank you for informing us.”

He hangs up the phone, and I approach him at a brisk pace.

“Father?”

“Mrs. Price is dead.” He says solemnly. I grow cold and angry and push away thoughts of sorrow and hate. Gwendolyn Price taught me how to play every stringed instrument I know, not exactly a close relation, but I’d known for seven years and it’s enough to make my stomach well with fire.

“How did it happen?” My voice sounds dead.

“They’re saying it’s suicide.” After he says this father is silent for a moment and the fire engulfing me cools to hard, frigid stone. I can’t think of a word to say.

“We should pray,” Father says back to his place on the white couch. Before anyone responds an agreement, he bows his head, and we follow.

“Dear Lord,

Please comfort Mr. Price and the children, help them come to realize that everything has a purpose and everything can be used for good. We also pray  that the police would find the truth, whatever that may be.

In Jesus name, amen.”

I look up feeling better, but still not enough. With Pierre’s and my plight forgotten I drag myself up the stairs and into my bedroom. The room is spotless, black-and-white, perfect except for the pages of music handwritten and scattered on my bed. Mrs. Price of been helping me write my compositions, she was at my concert tonight, I just saw her and to the best of my knowledge I will never see her again.

I pick up my violin delicately and prepare the bow, my eyes water; I’m still so angry. Though my parents never come into my room, and my brothers wouldn’t dare I still turn off the lights, no one can see me now. I lift the violin to my chin, sitting on my bed I play Frost, analyzing what just happened, I let the tears come.

I stab the melon with my fork; the orange fruit is soaked in fat from the bacon sitting beside it. I’m tired; it was 3 AM before I finally fell into a fitful, nightmarish sleep, which caused my mind to be haunted by the night's gore and terror. This afternoon Mel’s closest friends are taking her to lunch; I have to put myself together by then.

“So,” Dietrich says around a mouthful of bacon,” what was all the music for? I stayed up till one working on my novel, and you were still playing that violin.”

I look at him, and my expression flattens.

“Someone died.”

He looks at me with curiosity, furrowing his brow and tilting his head.

“Who?”

“My violin teacher.”

“Natural causes?”

“No.”

His eyes widen.

“Who killed her?”

I stare at him for a moment and then reply.

“It was a suicide.”

He suddenly looks stone-faced, and we eat our meals awkwardly in silence. It’s at least four minutes until he changes the subject.

“Well,” he says, the hardness of his face melting “do you have plans for today?”

“Remember, it’s Mel’s birthday today, the party’s tonight, you’re invited.”

“What, I completely forgot.”

“Of course you did.” A smile is returning to my face. There’s a knock on the door, my borzoi, Anika; barks and runs to the sound, I open the door.

“You ready?” Ian says, standing on the porch with Renée.

“Yeah.” I reply, “but I think Dietrich wants to come to. He seems to have forgotten the invitation on the fridge.” Renée and Ian smile, Dietrich looks towards us.

“Oh, right, just a minute.” He says, running upstairs. He comes downstairs a few moments later in a red polo and khakis.

“I’ll be right back,” I say running into the kitchen. Mother’s making a roast for supper, since it’s morning her hair isn't up in her habitual tight bun and cascades of silver and black in waves fall halfway down her back.

“Ian and Renée are here; we're going shopping?” I say, “Dietrich’s coming to.” She looks at me, thinking for a moment then replies.

“Do you have your phone?”

“It’s in my pocket.”

“You can go.”

I run back to the door and all four of us leave. The mall is 3 miles away, and when we get there, it’s a practical ghost town, which isn't surprising. Washington state isn't exactly a tourist attraction, especially not 10 miles away from the Canadian border. We walk into a party supply store and start shopping, which, by the way, I despise shopping; Renée restarts the conversation.

“Have you picked anything out for music?”

“Other than the genre, nothing.”

“What about country or jazz?” Ian suggests.

“If I chose that she would kill me.”

“Or you could go with classical.” Renée jokes.

“Yes, that sounds like a wonderful idea.” I laugh.

It only takes an hour to finish finding what we need, then walk to Mel’s house. Dietrich leaves when we get there; we go through the back door. I give Mrs. and Mr. Lavigne decorations, and we change into the dress clothes we brought there. I wear a dappled black and white and neon green dress; Renée’s is white, and Ian is in a suit.

Mel probably has her headphones on, so I take my phone out and text her.

23 5 1 18 5 8 5 18 5

When Mel and I were kids, we would play detective all the time. She'd know what this code means. When Mel walks downstairs, she’s in an emerald evening gown that perfectly matches her eyes.

“Any progress on the sandbox game?” Ian asks her.

“Nope,” she replies “the birds are flying backward in the sky’s still purple.”

Mel’s mother drives us to the restaurant; Mr. Levine would come, but he’s decorating. We’re finally at the restaurant; it’s beautiful, we sit down at a table near the kitchen. The noise of searing meat and cooking fire are loud here. At every rushing sound of flame Ian flinches, he has to turn his head away from the sound, and I know why, fire is one of his worst fears.

Ian is adopted; it took my knowing him for five years before he told me about his past. His father was an archeologist, his mother a businesswoman; he was three years old when she died, she worked in the World Trade Center, I suppose you can guess what happened. His father raised him until he was 10 then one day after school Ian came home and his father wasn't there, he called the police, it was three days before they found the body in an alley stabbed 32 times. Before he was adopted by his uncle he went from foster home to foster home for a year and a half, one was abusive, one hated him, one he barely escaped a fire alive from and the rest didn't care.

Soon enough, the food was out, positively delicious. Mel decided to try foie gras and, for the picky eater she is, I was surprised that she liked it. Next came dessert Renée had tartlets; I had meringue, Ian had tort and Mel insisted on cake.

After the meal we went back to Mel’s place lagging behind as we walked to the door, she opened it, the lights were off, then.

“Surprise!” Everyone yelled pouring out from behind the furniture. Mel just stood there with a grin on her face.

“Did you know about the party?” Renée asks her with a slight tone of worry.

“How could I not?” Mel replies. “Everyone always throws a party on my birthday; you had to get me out of the house somehow, lunch at a restaurant is classic not to mention Ian’s worried face when I ordered a cake. First things first there’s no such thing as too much cake.”

I’m terrible at social situations, so I walk towards the computer at in the living room finally having figured out what to play for music. I start typing in a program, something Mel taught me years ago, and out from the speaker comes lyric-less electronic music, something I despise but I know she loves. Mel looks up from her plate of cake she speaks as her grin grows wider.

“This… Is… Awesome.”

“So I chose the right music?” I say with a hint of sarcasm.

“Better than right, this is wonderful, though I thought you hated this stuff.”

“I do, but it’s not my birthday is it?”

“It was a week ago.”

“Don’t make me feel old.” We both laugh at this. When Mel first started speaking she was talking with Renée, who has been listening to us, now she joins conversation.

“If she’s old Ian’s ancient.” Her eyes sparkle with humor; Ian yells from across the room.

“Hey, I’m aged not ancient, besides I’m the only one of us that can vote.”

We all laugh and as a grows later in the evening, we eat, no supper just lemon cake and strawberry ice cream. Mel opens her presents among which are nail polish, music, a red macaw named beauty and a brand-new computer and phone.

The evening is growing late though it’s summer and still light out. Ian had already left because of his parents curfew of 6 o’clock it’s an hour later than when he left as I say goodbye to Mel. Dietrich, Renée and I walk home. Renée says her sister will pick her up.

The night is very warm, and the sun is setting, the sky is pink and orange, the border shimmering with gold and silver. The forecast said it would rain today, but I haven’t seen a cloud. I turn to Renée.

“Are you going to come to my next concert?”

“I never miss them.”

“Just making sure. For the next one, I am planning to extend it and include every instrument I play.”

“You’re going to play a guitar in the snooty music hall?”

“I’m planning on it. Why not?”

“Do you think they’ll let you?”

“I suppose they might be upset about it.”

Dietrich chimes in “upset, they’ll kill you if you do that without their permission.”

“What’s the difference between a guitar and every other stringed instrument I play?”

“The difference is,” he replies “violins, cellos and harps have been used in classical music for years but the guitar is a country thing, have you ever heard Fur Elise played on one?”

“As a matter of fact yes.”

“Really, by who?”

“Myself.”

“Oh.”

“It’s what I was planning to play in the first place.”

At that, the conversation ends, but it would've anyway. 20 yards away stands a man in a charcoal suit, smoking a cigar. I bury my face in my shoulder; tobacco smoke is one of the worst triggers for my asthma. I walk faster but already I can feel my lungs tightening, my throat squeezing shut. I fumble for my inhaler; it’s not here. In my rush to get out the door this morning, I must have left it at home. The man with the cigar stares at me, his hair is the color of dirt, his eyes the color of mud, his beard is thick.

“Get out of here!” Dietrich yells. The man walks closer along the sidewalk. I’m wheezing now; my breaths are short, shallow. I feel like dying, this reminds me of Mrs. Price, I feel a pang in my gut and quickly push it away. The sad part is I can’t be 200 feet from home. I’m going to die just barely beyond arms reach something that could save my life. I can barely feel air coming into my lungs; it burns and with this desperation I run down the street. I take one step and collapse to my knees still gasping, but it feels like nothing is coming in.

The man is a foot away; Dietrich yells again, louder, “go!” He points behind himself. The man finally does what he says, but not without quickly bending down, and blowing a mouthful of smoke at my face.

“She asthmatic!” Renée cries. The man just smiles and walks quickly away. My chest hurts so bad, and I can watch my fingertips turning blue. I’m coughing uncontrollably now. Renée is certified in first aid and CPR which is somewhat of a comforting thought, but the first aid half does no good for me without an inhaler and I don’t want to think about my heart stopping. Dietrich starts to run down the sidewalk toward her house; my inhaler is the music room. I hope he knows.

“Everything will be all right,” Renée says in a calm voice.

Yes, everything will be all right but I can’t help but think of the statistics. One person dies of asthma every eight hours; the number of deaths per hundred thousand population is 1.1, number of fatalities per year 3,300. These thoughts relieve some anxiety; death from asthma is relatively rare but still possible. These are my last thoughts before only one race is through my mind. Dear Lord, please help me!

A moment later I can see Dietrich running toward me with my inhaler, I stumble towards him and grab it hungrily. I position the inhaler, spraying it, mouth open and breathing deeply. The pain begins to subside almost immediately; I can breathe now, but it still labored.

“Thank you.” I wheeze hoarsely.

“Let’s get you home,” Dietrich says. Then he and Renée help me walk the rest way home. There’s a police car in front of the house. The officer looks to be a middle-aged man, slightly overweight with hair the color of carrots.

“Do you live here?” He asks as we approach.

“We do,” Dietrich says pointing to him and me.

“What about the other young lady?”

“She’s a friend.” I manage.

“Well miss,” the officer says turning to Renée,” you need to go home this is a possible crime scene.” She looks quizzically at me and says the officer.

“I’m supposed to be picked up here.”

“Find another way to get home.”

“Here.” I say, giving her my phone “call your parents.” She looks at me, still confused then turns to make the call.

“Why are you here?” Dietrich inquires.

“Do you know a woman named Gwendolen Price?”

“Yes,” I say weakly,” she was my violin teacher. Why?”

“She didn’t commit suicide; it just looked that way.”

“Then what happened?” Dietrich asks.

“She was murdered.” I can feel the rage boiling inside of me again; I beat it to the ground.

“Do you have any suspects?” I asked; my demeanor grown colder.

“Yes, at the moment, you.”