C. Omololu - Intuition

I look up from my laptop. “Yeah. I’m tired.”

She leans against the doorframe. “It’s been a tough couple of days, hasn’t it?”

I laugh, thinking about how much she doesn’t know. How much she’ll never know. “I haven’t been sleeping much.”

“Well, now that Rayne’s on the mend, that should get better. Do you have any lessons tomorrow?”

“Not until eleven,” I say.

“Good, you can sleep in. I’m going to go watch the late news if you want to come sit with me.”

“Maybe I will in a minute,” I say. I turn back to my search as she walks down the hallway. I’m trying to see if Veronique belonged to any clubs or hung out with anyone that might give a hint about who might have beaten us to the lab. For a brilliant young biochemist, she has a surprisingly small Internet footprint. I’m scanning through some entries about her research in college when I hear Mom shout from the living room.

“What?” I say from the doorway.

“Quick!” she says. “Come in here!”

I rush to the living room in time to hear the reporter say “. . . cause of death is unknown at this time.” He’s standing in a marshy field lit by spotlights, and I can see airplanes taking off somewhere behind him. The headline scrolling down below reads “Body of Young Scientist Found Near Airport.”

“Authorities say a search of her laboratory has so far turned up nothing, although that is the last place where she was seen earlier this afternoon. Anyone with information about this case is asked to contact the San Francisco police department.” The reporter signs off and the screen flickers to another story.

“That was Veronique!” Mom says. She looks stricken. “They said that they found her body this evening, but they don’t say what happened.”

I stare at her, unable to think of anything to say. There was a lot of blood at the lab; I should have seen this coming. I wonder if they got what they needed from her. “I don’t believe it.”

Mom puts one hand to her mouth. “Me neither! She was such a nice young woman. They were just here a few months ago—remember, she played piano for us? So talented . . . it’s such a waste.”

I nod slowly. I know I should be feeling relief—Veronique’s gone and she won’t be bothering us again, at least not in this lifetime. But all I feel is numb.

Mom looks up at me. “I wonder if the boyfriend had something to do with this. He was nice enough, but I always felt that he was a little shifty. Most of the time, things like this have to do with people you know.” She shakes her head sadly. “Still, it’s such a shame.”

“It is,” I agree, not knowing what else to say. It’s much safer to have Mom thinking that this is some sort of domestic-violence case. Not that she would ever guess the truth—that as crazy as she was, Veronique unlocked the secrets of Akhet transition. And that knowledge got her killed.

Janine isn’t telling me the whole truth. I can’t read her all that well over the phone, but even so, I’m sure there’s something she’s hiding when she calls this morning about Veronique. She said all the stuff I’d expect her to say—that the Sekhem are on top of it, that I should just sit tight and wait for news, but there’s something deeper behind her words. It’s been over a week since we’ve had an empath lesson, and I’m thinking it’s time to schedule another one—I’ll be able to find out more if I see her face-to-face.

I’m checking my phone again when I see Drew walk in the front door of the studio. I duck my head and pretend I don’t see him through the glass of the practice-room door, focusing on the piece in front of me and my fingers on the strings. I glance up again and see him walking back toward the exit, surprising myself by opening my door and calling out to him. “Drew!” The instant the word is out, I regret it. I don’t want to encourage him. But I need to feel connected to other Akhet right now, and he’s about the only one left who actually wants to see me.

He spins around and looks at me sheepishly. “I was just leaving you a note.” He nods toward the front desk. Rebecca waves a piece of paper in my direction, her eyes following Drew’s every move. I walk over and grab it from her.

“It’s an invitation,” he says. “To a party at my new place on Friday. I figured coming here was better than stopping by your house.” He looks right into my eyes. “And you haven’t been returning my calls.”

I glance over and see Rebecca hanging on his words. I walk back toward the open door of the practice room and motion for him to follow. No harm in being seen with him here this time. I fold the invitation in my hands. “Sorry about that; it’s been kind of crazy lately.”

“How’s Rayne?” He seems genuinely concerned.

“Better.” I hesitate. Janine said not to tell anyone about what happened with Veronique. Even though I’m sure Drew had nothing to do with it, I decide to listen to her. “Looks like they figured out what kind of infection it was and how to treat it. I’m going to the hospital as soon as I get out of here. I think they’re going to let her go home soon.”

“Good! I’m really glad.” He nods toward the invitation. “Well, Portia Martin’s coming back into town for a show this weekend, so I thought I’d have some people over,” he continues. “A little housewarming dinner at my new place. I’d love it if you’d come.”

I glance back at the closed door, but everyone seems to be minding their own business. “Some people? Like the people who were at the club?”

Drew grins and sits down at the piano bench. “Yes. Mostly Khered. It’ll be a good opportunity for you to meet other Akhet. People who might be able to help you in this lifetime.”

I’ve been thinking about Frank and the different Akhet I met with Drew that night. I know what Griffon and Janine think about them, but they all looked so content and happy. Still, accepting the invitation feels like some kind of betrayal. “I’m not sure I can make it.”

Drew pokes at a few of the piano keys. “Too bad.” He looks up and smiles at me. “But I understand.” He puts his hands on the keyboard and plays a few chords, expertly and without hesitation. This isn’t his first time at a piano.

He nods toward the cello. “Have you been playing?”

I shrug. Not like he has any stake in it. “A little. It’s a right-handed cello that . . . that they made for me.” It feels wrong to even say Griffon’s name in front of Drew.

“Cool.” Drew plays a few riffs. “We should play together sometime.”

I shake my head.

“Not in front of anybody. Just for fun.” Drew’s fingers hover over the keys, and then I hear the first few bars of “River Flows in You.”

I take a step toward the piano, my heart pounding at the familiar notes. “Stop.”

Drew lifts his hands off and the sound vibrates through the small room. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Why?”

“Just . . . not that song.”

“You don’t like Yiruma?”

“I do. It’s just . . .” My mind leaps back months, back to when things were normal and my biggest concern was what to play at the next concert. I exhale. “That was the song I was working on with my partner before the accident. Before . . . all of this started.” That was a lifetime ago.

Drew’s concern gives way to a smile. “It’s one of my favorite contemporary pieces.”

“Mine too.”

He reaches over and grabs my chair, turning it to face the wall. “There,” he says softly, sitting back down at the keyboard. “Don’t play it for me. Or the people out there in the studio. Play it for the wall.” He strikes the first note. “Play it for you.”

“I can’t.”

“How do you know?” Drew closes his eyes and plays the introduction while I stand there, not moving except for a slight swaying to the music that I can’t control. When he gets to my part of the piece, it feels hollow and empty without the cello, like a dance partner who’s all alone in the spotlight. He pauses and then starts over, the notes of the introduction filling the room, and my fingers itch to follow along, to balance out the soft, high notes of the piano with the mellow, rich sounds of the cello strings.

I sit down and pick up the cello, thinking that I’m just going to follow along in my head, show my fingers where they should go and what they should do. Which is why I’m as surprised as he must be when the first notes reverberate out of the cello and into the air. I face the wall and close my eyes, feeling nothing but the strings under my fingertips and the waves of music as the cello notes wind and twist with the delicate sounds of the piano. It’s like being in another world as the music surrounds us in the tiny room, softening the hard corners and weaving together the fabric of the song, strong and solid, while at the same time so fragile that it disappears through your fingers like the smallest puff of smoke.

Too quickly the song ends, and tears are falling from my eyes onto the dark wood of the cello. I wipe them away, but I can feel Drew watching me.

“Right,” he says, and I can hear the emotion in his voice as he clears his throat. “We’re going to miss you on Friday.”

I feel the air pressure change as he opens the practice-room door, and by the time I turn to look, the hallway is empty and Drew is gone.

The rest of the morning is torture, and I can barely focus on anything until I’m standing outside of Rayne’s room. They moved her out of ICU and onto a regular floor, and my prayers are answered when I push open the door and see that the bed next to hers is empty. I need to tell her what’s going on before she starts having memories, and I need to do it in private.

“Rayne?” I call, knocking on the door frame.