Page 117 of Stolen Harmony
I squeezed his hand, throat tight with emotion I couldn't quite name. “It does make sense. All of it.”
We sat there for a while longer, shoulders touching, watching the morning light move across the piano keys. The pancakes were probably ruined by now, but I couldn't bring myself to care. This moment felt too precious to interrupt, too perfect in its simple intimacy.
For the first time in two years, the house felt alive again. Not because the ghosts were gone, but because they'd made room for something new to grow alongside them.
I'd been editing a track for a local band, trying to smooth out the rough edges in their harmonies, when my phone buzzed against the desk. Victor's name flashed across the screen, and my stomach dropped before I even answered.
“We need to talk. Now,” he said without preamble. No greeting, no false pleasantries. Just the clipped authority of a man who knew he held all the cards.
I almost hung up. Should have. But there was something in his tone, that particular brand of satisfied menace perfected after decades of getting his way, that kept me on the line.
“About what?”
“You know what.” His voice carried weight, implication, the promise of consequences I wasn't ready to face. “My office. One hour.”
The line went dead before I could respond.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at my phone like it might explain what fresh hell my brother had prepared for me this time. The silence in the studio felt oppressive now, the half-finished track on my monitors mocking me with its incomplete harmonies. I told myself I had a choice, that I could ignore the summons, pretend Victor didn't exist, keep living in the fragile fantasy that my relationship with Rowan was private, protected—nobody's business but our own. But Harbor's End was too small for fantasies, and Victor too patient for ignorance. Whatever he wanted, whatever he'd discovered or manufactured, avoiding it would only make things worse.
The walk to the municipal building felt like a death march. October had painted Harbor's End in rust and gold, but the colors looked muted, drained, like someone had turned down the saturation on the whole world. Campaign posters with Victor's face smiled down from every lamppost—that practiced expression of concern and competence that had fooled half the town into thinking he gave a damn about anyone but himself.Every step was another weight settling on my shoulders, a reminder that I was walking straight into his trap.
The municipal building loomed ahead like a courthouse, all federal columns and granite authority. Victor had transformed the third floor into his private domain, complete with glass walls that let him survey his kingdom while keeping the peasants at a safe distance. The elevator ride felt eternal, each floor lighting up like a countdown to my execution.
His secretary barely looked up when I announced myself. “He's expecting you,” she said, her voice carrying the chill of someone who'd witnessed Victor's methods firsthand and learned not to ask questions.
He was already pouring himself a drink when I walked in. Single malt, judging by the bottle—something that probably cost more than my monthly rent. He didn't offer me one. Didn't acknowledge me beyond a slight nod toward the chair across from his desk.
“Punctual,” he said, settling into his leather throne with the satisfied air of a king granting audience. “I appreciate that in a man.”
“Cut the shit, Victor. What do you want?”
He reached for a manila envelope, fingers drumming against the leather desk blotter with deliberate patience. The sound echoed in the too-quiet office, each tap like a hammer fall. “You need to see this.”
He slid it across the desk. My hands were steadier than I expected as I opened it—until I saw what was inside.
Screenshots. Dozens of them. Grainy photographs taken with a telephoto lens from across the street, shadows and angles that managed to make even innocent interactions look sordid. Rowan leaving Anna's bar, stumbling slightly, looking vulnerable and lost. Rowan walking down Harbor Street at night, alone, the streetlights casting him in harsh relief. Rowan on abench by the waterfront, head in his hands, the picture of a young man in crisis.
But those were just the warmup.
The later photos showed him with me. Getting into my truck outside the municipal building. Walking beside me toward the old Grant house, our bodies close enough to suggest intimacy even when we weren't touching. One particularly damning shot caught us at the piano—my hand at his jaw, his eyes closed, both of us leaning into something that looked unmistakably like a kiss about to happen.
There were printouts of online comments too—forum posts, gossip threads, all vicious speculation and character assassination dressed up as concerned citizen commentary.
Each line cut sharper than the last, designed to destroy not just reputation but soul. I imagined Rowan reading them, the way they would confirm every poisonous thought already eating him alive, every fear that he was wrong and broken and deserving of contempt.
“Where did you get these?” My voice sounded too calm for the rage building in my chest like a wildfire.
“Does it matter?” Victor leaned back, swirling his glass with the casual air of a man discussing the weather. “They're already circulating in the right circles. Online forums, social media groups, email chains among the more... influential members of our community. All it takes is one viral post and his name is finished. Career. Reputation. Future. Gone.”
“You orchestrated this.”
“I facilitated it,” he corrected with lawyer-like precision. “But the raw material was already there, brother. His drinking. His revolving door of men. His very public emotional breakdowns. The boy practically builds the case against himself every time he stumbles out of Anna's place at two in the morning.”
The casual cruelty of it made me want to reach across the desk and wrap my hands around his throat. “He's grieving. He's in pain.”
“He's unstable,” Victor countered smoothly. “A danger to himself and others. Particularly to older men who might be vulnerable to manipulation by a younger, troubled individual with daddy issues and a drinking problem.”
I slammed the envelope shut, photographs scattering. “He's not manipulating anyone.”
