Chapter 3The Ghost in the Melody

The foyer of her childhood home smelled the same as always—lemon polish and old paper, the faint ghost of her father's coffee. Lina stood on the welcome mat, keys still in hand, and listened.

Silence.

She'd expected music. David always played something when he was upset—Chopin when he was sad, Bartók when he was angry. But the house was still, and that stillness was worse than any storm.

She found him in the living room. He sat on the edge of the armchair, back straight, hands folded. The USB drive sat on the coffee table between them like a verdict.

"Dad—"

"Sit down, Lina."

She sat. The couch cushions absorbed her like they were trying to swallow her whole.

David didn't look angry. That was the terrifying part. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, and he looked older than she'd ever seen him—like someone had pulled a thread and the whole fabric of him had started unraveling.

"I watched it three times," he said quietly. "The video. Before I texted you."

"Dad, I can explain—"

"You don't need to explain the music. I heard it." He pressed his palms against his knees. "That melody. The one you played at 2:34. Do you know where it came from?"

Lina's throat tightened. "I found it on an old hard drive. It was labeled 'fragments' and I thought—"

"You thought it was mine to take."

"No. I thought... it was beautiful. I wanted to honor it."

David laughed, but there was no humor in it. He stood, walked to the old cabinet in the corner, and pulled out a worn cardboard box. Lina had seen it a hundred times—her mother's things, he'd told her once. Don't ask about it.

He opened the box and took out a photograph. A woman with dark hair and Lina's exact cheekbones, laughing at something off-camera. Her mother. The woman she'd never known.

"Her name was Mei," David said, his voice cracking. "You know that. But you don't know this."

He pressed a button on an old cassette player—the one he'd kept on his desk for as long as Lina could remember. Static hissed, and then a piano began to play.

The same melody. The same notes, but raw, unfinished, searching.

"This was the last thing I wrote before she died," David said. "I was trying to finish it for her birthday. A concerto. Our concerto." He stopped the tape. "When she passed, I couldn't touch music for a year. And when I came back, I couldn't finish it. The melody was hers. It was ours. And I buried it."

Lina's eyes burned. "I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't. I never told you." He sat back down, heavily, like the confession had drained him. "I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty. I'm telling you because I need you to understand why I can't watch you throw yourself into something that will destroy you."

"It's not destroying me. It's—"

"It's a distraction." His voice sharpened. "The Philharmonic audition is in six weeks. Six weeks, Lina. And you're playing in underground clubs, mixing classical with... with noise, and putting yourself on the internet where anyone can see."

"The comments are positive—"

"Because they don't know you. They don't care if you burn out. I do."

Lina stood, her hands trembling. "You want me to stop."

"I want you to think." David picked up the USB drive. "I'm not going to take this from you. I'm not going to ground you like a child. But I am asking you—as your father, who has already lost one person he loved to this life—to consider what you're choosing."

He held out the drive.

Lina stared at it. The plastic was warm from his hand.

"Take it," he said. "And think about what you're carrying."

She took it. Her fingers closed around it, and she felt the weight of everything he hadn't said.

"I'll think about it," she whispered.

It wasn't a promise. But it was all she could give him.

---

Ezra was pacing when she arrived at the warehouse.

"Forty-two thousand views," he said without greeting. "And climbing. We're getting messages from three different booking agents."

"That's great."

"It was great." He turned his phone toward her. "Until this."

The comment was pinned to the top of the video thread. The username was @JakeThrasher.

*Nice show. Shame about the orchestra girl's daddy issues. Wonder what the Philharmonic board would think of their concertmaster candidate grinding on a street rat's synth.*

Lina's blood went cold.

"He knows," she said.

"Jake. My ex-bandmate." Ezra's jaw tightened. "He was there last night. I didn't see him, but he must have recognized me. He texted me an hour ago."

He showed her the message.

*$5,000 by Friday. Or I send the video to every classical music contact I can find. You have her schedule, Ezra. Don't test me.*

Lina read the words twice. Her savings account had $3,200. She'd been saving for a new bow.

"We should pay him," she said.

"No."

"Ezra, if he goes to the board—"

"Then he goes to the board. And we deal with it." Ezra grabbed his jacket. "But if we pay him once, he'll come back for more. That's how Jake works. We need to shut him down, not feed him."

"How?"

Ezra's eyes were hard. "We meet him. Tonight. I know where he works."

---

The dive bar smelled like stale beer and regret.

Jake was behind the counter, wiping a glass with a rag that looked like it had been through a war. He was thinner than Lina remembered from Ezra's old band photos—hollow-cheeked, with a tattoo of a broken guitar on his forearm.

"Well, well." He set the glass down. "The prodigal musician and his little rich girl."

"Cut the act, Jake." Ezra slid onto a stool. "You want money? We're here to negotiate."

Jake laughed. "Negotiate? I've got the leverage, man. Your whole little project—poof. Gone. Unless you pay."

Lina stepped forward. "Two thousand now. And a gig."

Jake's eyebrows rose. "A gig?"

"There's a club in Brooklyn. The owner offered us a weekly slot. I'll get you an opening set." She pulled an envelope from her bag—the cash she'd withdrawn on the way. "Two thousand tonight. You delete the video, the screenshots, everything. And you never contact us again."

Jake eyed the envelope. "That's it?"

"That's better than nothing. Which is what you'll get if we go to the police."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he snatched the envelope.

"Fine." He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and showed her the screen—a deleted folder, now empty. "Gone. You get me that gig by next week, or I'll find another way to make your life hell."

Lina nodded, her heart pounding.

They left without looking back.

Outside, the street was quiet. Lina's phone buzzed.

A text from David.

*I love you. Whatever you decide.*

She stared at the words, the weight of the USB drive heavy in her pocket.

Then Ezra's phone rang. He answered, listened, and went pale.

"That was the club owner," he said slowly. "Someone sent him screenshots of our contract. Demanding he cancel our slot."

Lina's stomach dropped.

Jake.

He hadn't deleted everything.

And now there was no telling what else he still had.