CHAPTER NINE
DAR WATCHED RHYS, WHOSE bookish ways and treasure trove of knowledge had earned him the nickname the Librarian, through half-closed eyes, as the man's long fingers click-clacked away on the keyboard of his laptop. Rhys' apartment was 5 degrees warmer than normal yet the man was wrapped in a thick wool sweater, worn at the elbows and frayed at the wrists. Dar's eyebrows drew together: despite Rhys' apparent chill, a sheen of sweat still coated his upper lip.
As Dar watched Rhys' fingers, the sound of the typing was superseded in his mind by that of Nocturne Op. 48 No. 1, the slow, melancholy tones of which had lured him into that dark room in Oxford.
The song had always tugged at him whenever he heard it. Even so, he'd tried to ignore it all those years ago, and block out th
