Page 45 of Command and Control: GHOST Operative

That means the tune selection is all his.

The music is coming from the opposite direction, so I turn that way, moving into a part of the house I haven't seen yet. The first room down this hall is a bathroom. It doesn't look as recently renovated as the one in Vincent's room, with wall tile and fixtures that are more in line with what was used twenty years ago. It's still nice, just nowhere near as updated. Humidity lingers in the air, carrying a smell identical to the one clinging to my skin, and a slight sheen of condensation clings to the mirror. Someone took a shower of his own while I slept.

I pass the bathroom and peek into the next room in line. It’s a laundry room with a door leading outside. It looks like the furnace and water heater are also in there, but I don't flip on the lights to get a better look. I'm not trying to be nosy. I'm looking for one, very specific thing.

The music gets louder as I continue toward the last door. Not only does it get louder, but I can now tell the tone of it is different. Not like something that's been recorded in a studio and is now being pumped through speakers. It's more raw. More rounded.

I suck in a breath when I reach the doorway and find Vincent seated on the bench of a black, baby grand piano. He's dressed in fresh pants and his standard black fitted T-shirt, his salt-and-pepper hair combed back, the strands barely clumping the way damp hair does.

His back is to me as I quietly pad into the room. The space is nearly as big as the rest of the house combined,with soaring ceilings that offer perfect acoustics for the private performance he's putting on.

A performance no one's ever heard but me.

His fingers glide over the keys, dragging my attention to their graceful movements. The sadness I felt earlier comes roaring back as I imagine him here, playing so beautifully for no one before brushing his teeth next to no one. Sleeping next to no one.

Smiling at no one.

His movements slow, each pass of his fingers gentling as the song winds down. When it stops, I suppress the urge to applaud. That's not why he's doing this or what he would want. Vincent doesn't do anything to impress other people. That's not who he is.

I’m impressed anyway.

"That was beautiful."

His spine barely stiffens, telling me he didn't know I was here. Didn't know I was listening.

He slowly turns to face me, long legs easily navigating from one side of the bench to the other. His eyes come to mine and there's a vulnerability there I've never seen.

I slowly move closer, wanting to ease whatever is making him feel so exposed. "Have you played the piano a long time?"

He’s still for a minute, but finally tucks his chin. "My whole life."

"It shows." I keep moving closer, desperate for a little more of him. More of his secrets. More of the things no one else gets to see. "Who taught you to play?"

Vincent's hands grip the edge of the bench as a flash of pain moves across his gaze. "My mother."

His tone is tight.Almost sharp.

I pause, tipping my head as I take him in. As I try to fit all the pieces he’s given me together. "I'm sure she would be happy to know you're still playing." It doesn't take a rocket scientist, or a skilled hacker, to deduce his mother is gone. The sadness is all over his face. The devastation of the loss etched into his expression.

Vincent offers another shallow nod.

I stop right in front of him. “Tell me about her.”

The pain on his face morphs into fear. Panic that makes me ache for him.

I step closer, pressing my hands to his face because now that we’re here—now that I know all I do—I can’t let him close me off the way I imagine he’s done to everyone else. “What was she like?”

He swallows hard, his hands moving from the bench to my hips, fingers gripping my body tight. “She was so…” He takes a breath, his head barely shaking like he can’t believe he’s telling me this. “Good.”

I smile even though I want to cry. Even though this moment is making me imagine what it will one day be like for my sons when I’m the one who’s gone. “That doesn’t surprise me.” I slowly lower to my knees in front of him, my body bracing between his thighs. “You had to get it from someone.”

17

GUILT AND MALICE

VINCENT

AND JUST LIKE that, Julieanne breaks through the sadness suffocating me. “You’re the first person to call me good in a long damn time, Angel Face.”

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