Page 78 of Liar Byrd
I forget all about trying to decipher the swirls and music notes and focus on the melody he’s playing.
I’m moving toward him, my fingers itching to learn it as I whisper, “What is that?”
“La fille aux cheveux de lin. I thought if you liked Debussy, you might like his other work.”
Another piece of music wraps around me, steals my heart, and makes me feel alive. His French accent is perfect, but I don’t speak French. “What does it mean?”
He plays another note. “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.”
Startled, I move to check if my hair dye has washed out, and he chose that piece of music for me because I’m a blonde. But I’m still a brunette—at least at the ends of my hair.
“I can teach you.” Nash turns to make an offer that I’d bite off my arm rather than refuse.
I approach him, limping a little from standing for a long time. He shuffles along on the bench, giving more space than I need, and I sit down next to him more relaxed than I would have been if that space hadn’t been there.
“Do you want to learn the sheet music first or the?—”
“The music,” I cut in, and he smiles slightly.
“The music it is. I can play it slowly for you a couple of times if you want.”
I nod, knowing I’ll learn it much faster seeing him play instead of guessing the right keys on my own.
Nash plays it three times for me, and I soak in each note, memorizing every key he presses. He watches the sheet music. I focus on his fingers, barely blinking.
He comments wryly, "I haven’t done this since I was a kid."
I glance at him. “Played with someone?”
He nods. “Ever since my mom taught me when I was a kid. I had teachers later, but they never sat with me like this.”
“How did she die?” I didn't intend to ask, and I might not have asked such a personal question if not for the grocery store owner’s warning not to work in this house.
He pauses before he says, “She was killed.”
I hold my breath.
He glances at me. “That was… a while ago.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “I heard someone say in town that there was a killer. And…” I try to read his expression, but it doesn’t change. There’s no guilt there. No evidence of having committed a crime at all.
“And?”
“Nance said I shouldn’t ask.”
Not if I wanted to keep my job.I could get answers from town, but I have my reasons for staying behind these iron gates.
“No one in this house killed her,” he says, and I get the feeling he’s leaving something unsaid. Maybe a lot.
“But therewasa murder?”
“There was,” he quietly admits.
“And someone here did it?”
“Yes, someone did.”
We’re looking right at each other when footsteps stomp into the room.
