Piano in the Dark. Eric Pete

steps aside, bowing his head as he makes the sign of the cross. I get down on one knee, muddy water soaking through my pants leg and chilling me further. I silently mouth the name on the headstone while reverently touching the tiny gravesite, my search at its end. I feel the lump welling up in my throat and try to suppress it. “I found you,” I mumble, more out of astonishment than accomplishment.

      “Loved one?” he asks, daring to interrupt the moment.

      “You might say that,” I answer, not taking my eyes off the grave that held a small child. Rainwater continues to run down my face with a steady stream rolling off my nose.

      Who knows tomorrow’s plans for you, I think to myself, those words having once been said to me by another.

      Contents

      Acknowledgments

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Chapter 41

      Chapter 42

      Epilogue

      About the Author

      Discussion Questions

      1

      I groaned as Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” reverberated through the midtown pub for the second time in a row, finding fleeting solace instead in the bottom of my empty shot glass.

      “Tell me again why we came here on karaoke night?” I asked my boy Jacobi as I raised my hand to request another round of Cuervo from the attractive waitress. As before, she held her smile a little longer for me. Lips curling to which mine reciprocated.

      “Because the drinks are cheap. Duh.”

      “Like you don’t have enough billable hours to afford a private room at Downing Street.”

      “True enough,” he agreed, never one to let something like humility get in his way. The only time Jacobi used the word humble was when he dropped the H sound and referred to the town of Humble north up the East-ex Freeway. “But the pickings here are better. Even if they sing like scalded cats.”

      “I’m not here for that, man,” I reminded him before he tried to get me in some sort of trouble. “I’ll leave the pussy-chasing to you.”

      “Whose fault is that, idiot? You were my role model in law school.” The silent now look at you was almost palpable in the air, hovering like a big flashing neon sign over us whenever too many drinks were consumed. Especially when too many drinks were consumed.

      Jacobi finished law school at TSU, Texas Southern University, while I simply unfinished…dropped out with a bunch of student loans and no shingle to show for it. Now I worked for Casey, Warner & Associates, the same law firm as him, but as his paralegal. But I was happy. Yeah. That’s it.

      “I’m happy with my decisions, man,” I said, vocalizing my thoughts as if some sort of therapeutic exercise. “You wish you had a wife like mine.”

      Before he could string together a remark, my iPhone rang in my jacket pocket. Speak of the devil. Thinking back to our argument before I came out here, I decided to ignore it. Disagreements were the currency in which we exchanged these days. The sounds of frolicking and cavorting in the background during a phone conversation with Dawn would only make things worse. I’d deal with her and my impending hangover when I got home.

      “Speak of the devil?” Jacobi joked, reading my mind as any close friend could. He was also the best man in my wedding.

      “Yeah. Too noisy in here, though. I’ll text her later.”

      Another round of shots was delivered to us. Jacobi thanked our waitress, slipping her an early tip along with his business card. The same waitress who’d shown definite interest in me all night. I started to say something to Jacobi, but declined. This was his game, not mine. I was here to put my problems on hold, not to generate new ones—no matter how attractive.

      Jacobi smiled. Teeth as impeccable as his attire. “Like you said, man. You’re happy with your decisions.”

      Several bad songs later, it was closing time. Pathetic as it was, we were carrying on like this on a weekday. Boys afraid to grow up. Jacobi offered me to sleep it off at his place, a luxury condo on Binz Street near Hermann Park and Rice University, as he had his designated driver chosen. I declined, watching our waitress for the night as she maneuvered his Range Rover from the curb and left me to my own devices with a honk of the horn and thoughts of how differently things could’ve gone down. A lot could’ve gone down differently. I could be that high-priced hotshot lawyer on the cover of all the right magazines in Houston. But that wasn’t the choice for me.

      I stood outside the pub on the ever quieting street, debating whether to head straight home or grab some coffee at a Waffle House and sober up first. Spring, to the north where I lived, was a haul in my current state.

      I unlocked my Camry with the remote. Decided to rest against it and take in the sticky night air before driving off. The missed call from earlier still shown on my iPhone. In a typical instance of too little, too late on my part, I sent a text to Dawn.

      Worked late on big case with J. Be home soon.

      I was almost the sole refugee from closing time at this hour.

      I took a few deep breaths, sampling the spent residue of a depleted midtown in an effort to clear my head. The intake reeked of big talk long over and alcohol-induced false promises. Soured by the atmosphere, I prepared to enter my car and leave.

      Except I wasn’t alone.

      What was strange was that I knew before I’d even turned to look. An awareness I’d never experienced before.

      A woman in a simple black dress stood near the corner of Bagby and Webster. Under the streetlights, she appeared almost ethereal in nature. Lonely. As if, for that moment, she were the captive subject in a French painting or something with the city as her backdrop. Long ebony hair obscured her face, making me more than mildly curious. Rather than crossing the street and getting on with her purpose in life or whatnot, she just…stood.

      Stood kind of like the hairs on the back of my neck, telling me