Page 75 of Freeing Savannah

Instead, she leaned in, her forehead resting against his chest. He smelled like clean soap and something warm, and she clung to that steadiness, to him.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered against her hair.

She nodded against his shirt. “We’re safe.”

A moment passed between them. It was intimate, full of promises unspoken, and when she finally pulled back, she caught a glimpse of movement from nearby. Brian was standing just on the other side of the piano, his eyes locked on her and Sawyer. His expression had shifted, no longer blank or polite. But tight and angry.

Savannah froze for half a second, confused by the intensity of his stare. Then he turned, briskly vanishing into the shadows of the wings.

Sawyer noticed too. “That guy is starting to give me weird vibes,” he muttered.

Savannah exhaled and shook her head, letting the tension roll off her shoulders. “He’s probably just frustrated I’m not obsessing over the piano.”

Sawyer didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.

Savannah turned toward the gleaming house, rows of velvet seats waiting to be filled. The tour was nearly over. The Senator was behind bars. And for once, she could breathe.

Almost.

Hours later, the lights dimmed just enough for the glow of the grand Steinway’s polished black surface to catch fire under the stage lights. Savannah sat poised at the piano, her back straight, fingers hovering above the keys, breath held in a moment of suspended magic.

The Kennedy Center was full and buzzing with prestige and expectation. The President sat in the presidential box, graceful and attentive, her husband beside her, flanked by an entourage of familiar political faces. Power practically pulsed in the room like an unseen current, but Savannah didn’t feel its usual weight.

She felt . . . light.

Alive.

Like herself, finally.

Her dress shimmered with every movement, the bodice tailored to perfection, the skirt flowing like liquid silk around the piano bench. Behind her, a full orchestra sat at the ready, waiting for her lead. But in this moment, it was just her. Her and the keys. Her and the music that had carried her through grief and expectation and fear and longing.

From the first chord, the crowd stilled, completely mesmerized. Her fingers danced effortlessly across the keys, painting each note in shimmering, silver light. Her tempo surged with life, her expression serene, fierce, radiant.

She was playing like a dream. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Only music. Pure and consuming.

In the soft light of the piano lamp, her iPad screen illuminated the sheet music in front of her, a familiar comfort.

Until a single line of unfamiliar text blinked onto the screen, just beneath the current bar of music.

IT’S GOING TO BE AN EXPLOSIVE PERFORMANCE.

Savannah’s fingers faltered—barely a half-beat—but to most, it would sound like an artistic flourish. With a violent thudding in her chest, the blood drained from her face, leaving her pale and breathless as a strange sense of déjà vu washed over her mind.

The message disappeared.

She stared at the now-blank bar, the music resuming like nothing had happened.

But something had.

She lifted her eyes, scanning the audience, suddenly too aware of every exit, every shadow, every face.

Her breath came too fast. The pedals beneath her feet felt too slick. The orchestra, still poised behind her, waited on her next cue.

And somewhere in that vast, hushed space, someone was watching.

Waiting.

The music must go on.

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