Everything You Are(60)

“Thanks for bringing her home. I’m sure you’d like to—”

“Allie was telling me you’re planning to get rid of the cello.” Phee stands unmovable, her eyes boring holes into him. Too late, the silence whispers, and Braden’s clear motivation to get her out of the house confirms her fear.

“Look, can we talk about this later? I really think that what’s going on with Allie is more important than—”

“What’s going on with Allie is part of why I’m here.”

Allie slams the door closed. “Part of what?”

“Nothing,” Braden says. “Go to your room, Allie. This doesn’t concern you.”

“It concerns her more than you think.” Phee can’t contain her dread any longer. “Where is the cello?”

“You should leave.”

Phee pushes past him and heads for the music room.

She hears his footsteps behind her as if from a distance. “Phee—”

But she’s already standing at the open door. The chair still sits by the music stand, but the room is empty of the only thing that matters. Phee’s knees go weak. She supports herself against the doorjamb, tries to breathe in a world where somebody has cut off all of the oxygen.

“Braden Healey, what have you done?”

“I tried to tell you, Phee. It had to go. I asked you, begged you—”

“So we’re saying ‘it’ now? No more ‘she’? After everything I showed you—”

“I told him to get rid of it,” Allie breaks in. “It’s, like, the one thing he’s done right since he moved back in.”

“Oh, honey,” Phee says. “He can’t—”

“Don’t you dare tell her.” Braden’s voice is fierce. “You need to leave this house, now.”

“She has to know. She’s part of this.”

“Do not drag my daughter into your delusions!”

“What are you even talking about?” Allie demands, looking from one to the other.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Oh puh-leese. I hate being lied to, and I am not a child.”

“Braden. You have to listen to me. I know you think I’m crazy. But you have to get the cello back. You have to do it now!”

“Not possible.”

“Fine, tell me what you’ve done, who you sold her to, and I’ll go get her back myself.”

“I didn’t sell her.”

Phee’s hand goes to her heart, her vision darkening around the edges. “Tell me you didn’t—”

“Break her and burn her?”

Celestine’s barking resonates through the house, followed by the doorbell. All of them ignore it.

“I don’t know where she is,” Braden says.

“You don’t know what you’re saying! You don’t know what you’ve done!”

The doorbell chimes again. The barking intensifies. “Are we expecting company?” Braden levels the question at Allie, a challenge. “Because if that Ethan character dares to show his face . . .” He hears his own words and strides back toward the door, Allie at his heels.

“Dad! It wasn’t his fault about the party. It was my idea.”

Braden yanks the door open.

The young man standing on the porch is a stranger; the cello case he carries is not. All three of them stand frozen, staring.

“So sorry,” the man says. “I couldn’t find time to bring it to you before now. I know you must have been crazy with worry.”

Before Braden can say something stupid, Phee claims the cello. “Thank you so much. You’re right. We were desperate. I don’t know what we would have done if we’d lost it.”

“Saw the address label on the case and looked you up. Glad I grabbed it when I did; there were a couple sketchy-looking dudes eyeing it. Well, I guess I’ll be going, then.”

“For your trouble,” Phee says, producing a wad of bills from her pocket, but he holds up his hand.

“No, please. I play guitar. Can’t imagine how I’d feel if I left it somewhere and lost it. And a cello? Wow. Have a good night.”

Phee closes the door and carries the case to the middle of the room. Opens it and strokes the cello soothingly. “It’s okay, beautiful. You’re home now.”

She’s rewarded by a melancholy strain of music. A surge of protective anger wells up. “What did you do? Abandon her at a bus stop?”

“This isn’t happening,” Allie says. “I mean, this is all so totally weird, I can’t even.”

“What happened,” Phee says, “is that your father swore an oath that he would love and play the cello for always. Only now that he can’t play—”

“Oh, he can play all right.” Allie’s outrage is equivalent to Phee’s.

“Allie. Phee.” Braden sputters, caught between the two accusations.

“Does one of you want to explain?”

“I can’t—” Braden starts, but Allie cuts him off.

“He says he can’t play. Just like he says he’s not drinking anymore. But he played the C Minor last night.”

Phee just looks at Braden.