Page 73 of The Pucking Player

“To hell with it. I’m in the city, and I’ll be there in half an hour, tops.” I slam my car door so hard the whole vehicleshakes, pressing the ignition button like I’m trying to murder it. “Call the police, then stay at Mrs. O’Reilly’s until I get there. You hear me, Ma?”

“Okay,” she whispers. Her shaky voice doesn’t sound like my strong, fierce, worked-three-jobs-to-buy-hockey-gear mother. She hasneversounded small before.

“I’m on my way. Just...just hang tight.”

I end the call and peel out of the parking lot, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. The haze of Sophie’s hot body pressed against mine evaporates like ice in the summer sun, replaced by cold dread crawling its way up my spine.

Soon I’m barreling down Bedford Avenue. The gentrified heart of Williamsburg is beating strong, even at eleven at night. Hip twenty-somethings spill out of craft beer bars and artisanal coffee shops turned nightspots, looking like they just stepped out of an Instagram filter. The contrast with my childhood memories of this neighborhood hits hard. Before the hipsters invaded with their pour-over coffee and vintage record stores, it used to be all bodegas and family-owned shops.

Mom’s building is a prewar walkup wedged between a vegan bakery and what used to be Mr. Romano’s hardware store. It’s now a crystal healing center. The old brick facade looks exactly the same as it did when I was a kid.

I take the stairs two at a time to Mrs. O’Reilly’s fourth-floor apartment. The old elevator is still broken. Some things just don’t change.

Mom and Erin are huddled on our neighbor’s comfy couch, two uniformed cops standing over them with notepads. The sight of my baby sister’s fearful expression makes my gut constrict.

“Liam!” Mom jumps up, throwing her arms around me.

“I’ve got you, Ma,” I murmur, holding her shaking body tight. Over her shoulder, I catch Erin’s eye. She looks nothing like the confident musician from last week.

The cops finish taking statements, leaving us with a case number and the standard “we’ll be in touch.” Their faces say what they’re not telling us—this’ll probably get filed away with all the other breaking-and-entering cases that never get solved.

Finally, we’re cleared to go back into the apartment. As I step inside, my blood runs cold. Erin’s spare cello lies in pieces by the window, its neck snapped off, a clean and deliberate break. The bow’s been broken too, the horsehair strings cut into shreds.

Papers are scattered everywhere, but a few news clippings about the PEDs scandal catch my eye. It slowly dawns on me that this might be connected to the betting scheme.

Is this a warning?

“My sheet music,” Erin whispers, kneeling by her destroyed cello and picking up scattered papers. Her fingers hover over the pages—Albinoni, Dvorák, Shostakovich, the pieces she’d been practicing for upcoming auditions.

Holding a few sheets, she gasps.

“What is it?”

“These are not my markings.”

I lean in closer. Certain measures are highlighted.

“What do they mean?” An uneasy feeling is starting to take shape.

This was not a random break-in.

“Fortissimomeansas loud as possible.Crescendo,growing louder. Andcon fuocomeans with fire,” Erin says, looking at the sheet music, confused.

My jaw clenches so hard I can hear my teeth grinding.

I need to speak with Dmitri.

I take a few deep breaths as the vague feeling transforms into realization and certainty.

“How’s Dad?” I ask in an attempt to divert and turn to Mom to help her sweep up broken glass from the kitchen floor. “I haven’t spoken to him for a couple of days.”

“He’s...having a good week,” she tries to reassure me, but I catch the hesitation. “The new treatment at Brookdale seems to be helping with the tremors. The doctors think a few more weeks of intensive physical therapy might do the trick.”

“I hope so. But in the meantime,” I straighten up, glass crunching under my boots. “Pack your bags. You two are staying with me until we figure this mess out.”

My mother shakes her head, that familiar stubborn set to her jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have an early shift tomorrow at Brooklyn Methodist.”

“Call in sick! Or take the train to work. Hell, I’ll drive you in the morning.”

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