“My lessons got… hijacked.” Her voice hitches strangely on that weird.“Life intervened.” When I keep looking at her, saying nothing, she sighsand concedes the rest of us. “My dad left us. Left me at piano, specifically,actually. He was supposed to pick me up after the lesson but he nevershowed. I was eight years old. Took a while before I actually understoodwhat was happening.”
Her face is calm, but her hands are a writhing, wringing mess in her lap. Ioffer her a soft, noncommittal hum and she finally looks up at me. “Ithought that there’d been an accident or something. I assumed someone washurt. I guess we were all hurt; I just didn’t know it yet.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
Her gaze bounces everywhere, never settling
