Everyone Tried to Help the Troubled Pianist—Until a Waitress Played One Familiar Song
Chapter 4
Claire didn’t open the letter immediately.
She couldn’t.
She took it home.
Locked the door.
Sat at her kitchen table.
And stared at it for an hour.
Her mother had died twelve years earlier.
Claire had spent twelve years believing the story.
Rain.
A wet road.
A truck.
A crash.
A funeral.
She had accepted it because there had been no reason not to.
Now Adrian was telling her something else.
Her mother had written to her.
Before she died.
And Adrian had kept it.
She finally opened the envelope.
Inside was one page.
My darling Claire,
If Adrian ever gives you this, then he finally found the courage I hoped he would.
Claire’s hands shook.
She read on.
I want you to know that I never stopped loving you.
I also want you to know that the accident was not an accident.
Claire covered her mouth.
The next line was worse.
Someone wanted Adrian silent.
She read the letter twice.
Then called him.
He answered immediately.
“Claire?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know when you were ready.”
“My mother knew she was in danger.”
“Yes.”
“Who threatened her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why did she mention you?”
Adrian was silent.
“Adrian.”
“I think because she trusted me.”
“You let me believe she died accidentally.”
“I know.”
“How long have you had this letter?”
“Four years.”
Claire’s voice broke.
“Four years?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I deserve your anger.”
She hung up.
Then she cried.
Not because of Adrian.
Because her mother had known she might die.
And no one had told Claire.
The next morning, she returned to the hotel.
Adrian was waiting.
He looked exhausted.
“I brought the rest.”
He placed a box on the table.
Inside were letters.
Photographs.
Sheet music.
A diary.
Claire looked at him.
“Why did you keep these?”
“Because I promised your mother.”
“What did you promise?”
“To protect you.”
“From who?”
“I never found out.”
She opened the diary.
The first page contained a name.
Victor Lang.
She knew it.
He was one of the most powerful investors in the city.
He had funded Adrian’s early career.
He had also become a major donor to the music academy where Eleanor taught.
Claire looked up.
“Victor knew my mother.”
Adrian nodded.
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“She found something.”
“What?”
“Financial records.”
Claire stared.
“What kind?”
“Money was being moved through the academy.”
“How much?”
“Millions.”
She frowned.
“And my mother discovered it.”
“Yes.”
“Then she was killed.”
“That’s what I believe.”
Claire turned another page.
Her mother had written:
If I don’t make it home, tell Adrian the song is the key.
Claire looked at Adrian.
“The song.”
He nodded.
“Your mother’s favorite.”
She remembered.
Four notes.
A pause.
Then the melody.
“Why would a song be a key?”
Adrian didn’t know.
Claire played it again.
Four notes.
Pause.
Then the melody.
Adrian listened.
“Wait.”
He stood.
“Play the first four notes.”
She did.
Then he opened an old recording machine.
He played a recording from twenty years earlier.
Eleanor’s voice.
Piano in the background.
The same four notes.
Then she said something.
Claire leaned closer.
“Adrian.”
Her mother’s voice continued:
“The first four notes are not music.”
Silence.
Claire stared.
The recording continued.
“They are a number.”
She looked at Adrian.
He understood.
“The notes correspond to numbers.”
Claire’s heart raced.
They translated them.
A code.
Adrian searched his old records.
A safe deposit box.
Box 4719.
Claire stared.
“My mother left something there.”
They went to the bank.
The box opened.
Inside was a flash drive.
A photograph.
And a letter.
The letter was addressed to Adrian.
You trusted the wrong person.
Claire looked at him.
“Who?”
At the bottom was a single name.
Victor.
