Page 142 of Pieces of Her (Andrea Oliver 1)

August 2, 1986

14

Jane felt the ivory keys of the Steinway Concert Grand soften beneath the tips of her fingers. The stage lights warmed the right side of her body. She allowed herself a furtive glance at the audience, picked out a few of their faces under the lights.

Rhapsodic.

Carnegie had sold out within one day of the tickets going on sale. Over two thousand seats. Jane was the youngest woman ever to take center stage. The hall’s acoustics were remarkable. The reverb poured like honey into her ears, bending and elongating each note. The Steinway gave Jane more than she had dared hope for; the key action was loose enough to bring a nuanced delicacy that bathed the room in an almost ethereal wave of sound. She felt like a wizard pulling off the most wondrous trick. Every keystroke was perfect. The orchestra was perfect. The audience was perfect. She lowered her gaze past the lights, taking in the front row.

Jasper, Annette, Andrew, Martin—

Nick.

He was clapping his hands. Grinning with pride.

Jane missed a note, then another, then she was playing along to the staccato of Nick’s hands like she had not done since Martin first sat her down on the bench and told her to play. The noise sharpened as Nick’s clapping amplified through the hall. Jane had to cover her ears. The music stopped. Nick’s mouth twisted into a sneer. He kept clapping and clapping. Blood began to seep from his hands, down his arms, into his lap. He clapped harder. Louder. Blood splattered onto his white shirt, onto Andrew, her father, the stage.

Jane opened her eyes.

The room was dark. Confusion and fear mixed to bring her heart into her throat. Slowly, Jane’s senses came back to her. She was lying in bed. She pulled away the afghan covering her body. She recognized the blue color.

The farmhouse.

She sat up so fast that she was almost knocked back by a wave of dizziness. She fumbled for the switch on the lamp.

A syringe and vial were on the table.

Morphine.

The syringe was still capped, but the bottle was almost empty.

Panicked, Jane checked her arms, legs, feet for needle marks.

Nothing, but what was she afraid of? That Nick had drugged her? That he had somehow infected her with Andrew’s tainted blood?

Her hand went to her neck. Nick had strangled her. She could still remember those last moments in the bathroom as she desperately gasped for air. Her throat pulsed beneath her fingers. The skin was tender. Jane moved her hand lower. The round swell of her belly filled her palm. Slowly, she inched down farther and checked between her legs for the tell-tale spots of blood. When she pulled back her hand, it was clean. Relief nearly took her breath away.

Nick had not beaten another child out of her body.

This time, at least for this moment, they were safe.

Jane found her socks on the floor, tugged on her boots. She walked over to the large window across from the bed and drew back the curtains. Darkness. Her eyes picked out the silhouette of the van parked in front of the barn, but the other two cars were gone.

She listened to the house.

There were low voices, at least two people talking, on the far side of the house. Chopping sounds. Pots and pans clattering.

Jane leaned over to buckle her boots. She had a moment where she remembered doing the same thing days ago. Before they walked downstairs to speak with agents Barlow and Danberry. Before they had left in Jasper’s Porsche without realizing that they would never go back. Before Nick had made Jane choose between him or her brother.

These anarchist groups think they’re doing the right thing, right up until they end up in prison or flat on their backs in the morgue.

The door opened.

Jane didn’t know who she expected to see. Certainly not Paula, who barked, “Wait in the living room.”

“Where’s Andrew?”

“He went for a run. Where the fuck do you think?” Paula stalked off, her footsteps like two hammers hitting the floor.