Page 1 of Hope & Harmony

Chords of Destiny

PROLOGUE

HOPE

Present Day

Icy chills skate up my neck.

My eyes dart around the crowd at the sea of faces watching me.

I feel exposed.

Putting myself out here is nerve-racking on the best of days. A gig’s a gig, though. At least, that’s what I told myself when I added this afternoon busking shift at Pike Place Market. I’m used to the lunchtime crowd and my regulars who stop by to see me every day.

This crowd is unfamiliar. The vibe is just…different.

Determined not to let fear get the best of me, I take a deep breath and belt out the last note of the melody. Holding…holding—allowing it to linger until the song fades like vapor into the late-afternoon air.

When the accumulated audience bursts into applause, I hold back tears of relief. Dozens toss money into my open guitar case. A few say the sweetest things as they pass by.

“My coworker told me not to miss your performance.” A woman in a navy business suit hands me a twenty. “I’m so glad I came. You’re going to be a big star.”

An elderly man wearing a fedora drops a dollar on top of the other bills. “Sweetheart, you’re a balm to my soul every day.”

Wait, what? Did these people actually make an effort to come see me play this afternoon?

Wow.

Maybe I’m on the right path.

Gratefully, I observe the tips pile up in my guitar case while I chat. Nod my thanks. Shake a few hands. I guess the power of music means something.

A dude wearing a quilted gray jacket shyly offers me five dollars. “Quite the haul.”

“Uh, yeah. Not bad for February.” I take the bill. He’s quite handsome. Untamed black hair flops over kind, brown eyes framed by trendy, square glasses. I dig his snazzy green Puma sneakers.

He blushes. “I usually listen to you at lunchtime, but I heard you were playing again today. I was wondering…”

A quick glance at the clock on the Market sign freaks me out. I’m gonna be late for my bartending shift if I don’t skedaddle right effing now.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta jet.” I hurriedly stuff the tips in my crossbody bag and pack my old Gibson J-45 in its worn, duct-taped case, taking a millisecond to run my thumb over the frets. The sunburst finish is faded and scratched, but the guitar holds a cherished place in my heart.

It’s all I have left of my mother.

To save a couple of minutes, I take a shortcut. Dart down a narrow alley hemmed in by aging brick buildings. A musty, damp odor clings to the old, uneven cobblestones worn by time and weather. The dim light from a flickering street lamp casts a twisted shadow against the gum wall. It’s quiet except for an occasional drip of water from a leaky gutter. The scuttle of a rat in the shadows. A horn honking from the ferry line. A distant clank of a dumpster lid.

Tamping down the involuntary shiver creeping along my spine, I pick up the pace.

Only three more blocks.

Seconds later, the bustle of the waterfront comes into view, and I sigh with relief. I can see my car, its blue paint dulled by years of sun and rain. Pulling the keys out of my pocket, I’m about to unlock the door when I’m yanked back with a force that steals my breath.

Fear grips me, glacial and sharp. My guitar, slung across my back, becomes the center of a violent struggle. I cling to it fiercely, wrapping my arms around the case.

“Let go!” I scream, though my voice is lost in the chaos.

My assailant, whose face is hidden under a ski mask, jerks the strap of my crossbody bag. Holy crap, he wants my tips. I desperately scream, kick, and thrash, trying to hold on to what’s mine.

A horrific blow to the side of my head catches me off guard.

Pain explodes. The world spins.

In slow motion, my body crumples to the ground. I try to get up, but it’s useless. A sharp kick in the gut renders me helpless. I watch as the guy takes off with my bag and guitar.

You needed the money for rent.

Darkness claims me.

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