Page 18 of Sin Like the Devil

Leaning against the wall, I’m lost in the intricate swirls of ink that make up the landscape canvas mounted outside her office when the door clicks open. Her familiar lilting voice leaks out from inside.

“You know where to find me if you require additional assistance settling into life here at Harrowdean.”

“That won’t be necessary,” a rough drawl responds.

“We can make adjustments to accommodate your specific needs.”

“I managed fine in the last place. I’ll be alright here.”

“Well, as you wish.”

When the door swings open, Doctor Galloway spots me lingering outside. She’s mid-fifties at best, her wrinkled face usually pulled taut in a grimace that deepens her crow’s feet. Wearing her silver-streaked hair in a slicked back bun does her ageing appearance no favours.

Today’s outfit is another ill-fitting pantsuit and tweed blazer. This woman needs to hire a stylist already. Harrowdean must pay her enough to afford one. Silence is expensive, after all.

“Be right with you, Ripley.”

“Sure, doc.”

Summoning a tight smile of acknowledgement, she holds open the door to release her last patient. The moment he’s unveiled, my heart spasms in my chest. As he makes his way out into the corridor, the bright chandeliers overhead reveal all the details I couldn’t make out last night.

His haunting violin music has played on a loop in my mind ever since I found him in the music room. Staring at my mystery violinist, my breath falters. Goddamn, what a sight he is.

Golden hair slicked back, his perfectly proportioned nose and full, thick lips are front and centre. The razor-edge of his jawline is sharp enough to cut metal like it’s butter and covered in a light blonde scruff.

A pair of blacked-out glasses on the tip of his nose, his caramel-coloured eyes flick upwards for a brief moment. They’re unfocused. Darting around the corridor without ever daring to grace me with their honeyed magnificence.

He rushes to slide the glasses back into place and takes a deep inhale. I don’t know why I bite my lip and hold my breath, like somehow if I don’t dare steal a single inhale for myself, he won’t recognise me.

“No live performance today, babe.” The corner of his mouth quirks in an amused smirk. “You’ll have to gawp elsewhere.”

Eyes hidden from sight, he unclips a folded, plastic stick that was clasped in one hand. It reaches mid-chest, and the tip is red, extended to reach the floor. That’s when the penny drops.

The comforting darkness.

His unfocused gaze.

A strange awareness of my breathing.

He’s blind.

“See you next week for your next session, Mr Starling.”

“Raine is fine.”

Doctor Galloway continues to prop the door open for him. “Okay, Raine. Do you need assistance finding the exit?”

“I’ll manage,” he responds easily. “My friend is meeting me.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad you were all transferred together.”

“We got lucky,” he comments vaguely.

The unusual name befits everything I find weirdly fascinating about this golden-haired man. His seemingly perfect, almost angelic appearance tempered by the memory of his anguished music, played alone and in the shadows. Nothing but his violin and loneliness to hold his hand.

My curiosity is only heightened by the fact that he played like fucking Vivaldi without being able to even see where to place his fingertips. But as I scrutinise him, silently berating myself for being foolish enough to show an ounce of interest, I realise he can see.

Perhaps more than I can.

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