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She stared at the comments. How did he seem to know so much?

“How do you know it’s a ‘he’?”

A smiley face appeared on the screen. “It’s always a ‘he.’”

Cindy typed, “Give me a minute to think.”

“Take all the time you want.”

She got up and walked out to the backyard. She felt so conflicted and didn’t know what to do. Above her, she saw the full moon beaming down as if it wanted to know what she planned. She wished she had an answer.

She stared out to the darkness and listened to the occasional chirp of an insect. Her mind was a flurry of images. Tony mostly, but also Avril.

After about ten minutes, she walked back inside and sat in front of her computer.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“You kill people. Let’s call it what it is.”

“Okay. If that’s the word you want to use, yes, that’s what I do.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m wherever you need me to be. I know you’re in the United States, and so am I.”

“How do you know that?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m in the northwest.”

“Okay.”

“What if I asked you to kill two people?”

“Two?” There was a pause, as if Cindy had thrown off whatever the Manipulator had thought he’d figured out.

“Yes.”

“Who are they?”

“Me and my daughter.”

* * *

Cindy was biting her lip as she stared at the computer. It was out there now. At least half of it. She didn’t wait for the stranger to answer before she added, “But what I want is for you to fake our deaths. I want you to pretend to kill us but then take us away to start a new life somewhere else.”

“Well, that’s a new one. Every day there’s surprises in this business.”

“Well?”

“I can do that. It’ll take a lot of planning, but there’s less risk for me, so I’ll stick to $20,000. That’ll cover both of you. We’ll arrange a boating accident and they’ll never recover your bodies.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll do the planning. Come back here on July 15. I’ll be ready to talk to you more then.”

“That’s nine days away . . .”

“You in a hurry, lady? Or do you want it done right?”

“It’s okay. I’ll be back then.”

“Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

Cindy logged off of Tor, shut her computer off, and started to walk up to bed, but she was pretty sure she wouldn’t have much luck finding her way to sleep tonight.

There are 27 stores in the Seattle area that sell musical instruments. Of those, 18 sell guitars, usually alongside other types of instruments.

Tony McKay loved to wander to all the different stores and see what new inventory they had. He’d taken to devoting Mondays and Tuesdays to checking out the competition. Jesse didn’t care. The busy days were later in the week, and even then Jesse was able to handle the store on his own most days. It was rare for Tony to go window shopping at the other stores on a Thursday, but today he’d just felt like getting out. Seattle’s First Music was dead, likely a hangover effect from the fourth of July. It didn’t seem like anybody was particularly interested in spending Independence Day (or the whole freaking week) looking at a new drum set or clarinet.

Jesse himself sat behind the cash register all morning reading
People Weekly
and the
Seattle Times
. That alone told Tony more than he needed to know. Tony never just sat there like that.

“Waste of a day,” said Tony as he stood up and stretched. They’d only had three customers come in. One wanted new strings to replace his broken ones, one wanted a price on an alto saxophone (and promptly headed back out as soon as she heard the price was $300), and the third wanted directions to the closest Starbucks.

Jesse scratched his beard and adjusted his glasses. With his long dark hair, he always reminded Tony of John Lennon, circa 1970, a hippie lost in time.

“The weekend will be bigger,” said Jesse. “If not, there’s always next week.”

Tony nodded, wondering how Jesse ever managed to pay the rent on the store.
Not my problem, thank God
, he thought.

As long as Tony’s pay check didn’t bounce (and it never had), he didn’t much care about the cash flow of the business. He got paid, Jesse was happy; what more did a successful store need?

Well, customers to beat away the boredom would be nice.

Before lunch, Tony had spent a couple of hours working on a new song. In his heart of hearts, he knew he was still a songwriter and always would be. It was what God placed him on this stinking little planet to do. Write songs.

If the fucking public didn’t like them, well, all that proved is that the U.S. of fucking A. was filled with millions of idiots. He knew his own songs were constantly improving, even if nobody else wanted to hear anything from him but
Summer Drive.

“Gonna head out,” he called to Jesse. “See you tomorrow.”

Jesse just nodded and half-waved at Tony as if he were already long-gone.

* * *

Tony already knew the route he would take. He was headed to Bellevue, the sister city to the east of Seattle. It’d been a few months since he’d journeyed over there.

The drive was one of the most enjoyable he ever took when scouting music stores. He loved taking the long, low Evergreen Point Floating Bridge over Lake Washington. Somehow it just relaxed his mind.

There were three stores he planned on hitting. The first was a run-down and crowded place that bordered on being a junk shop. The instruments were placed haphazardly around the store on tables, chairs, benches, and even the floor.

But they had nice stuff. Nicer than Seattle’s First Music, although he’d never say that to Jesse.

The Music Emporium had only one problem: the owner was a cranky old man who didn’t much care if Tony was the greatest singer since Sinatra. He didn’t want to listen to how great
Summer Drive
was and how famous Tony was and how he had all these great hits lined up to record at some point as soon as he found time in his busy schedule. Didn’t give a rat’s ass about any of that. Just wanted to know if Tony wanted to slap down a few hundred for a new piece.

Tony only went there to browse in case the old man’s ticker had blown a gasket and maybe there was somebody new running the shop.

No such luck. The old man was there and crankier than ever. Tony pretended to admire a couple of second-hand Arias. He strummed a few bars from
Summer Drive
on one of them and the sound was rich and solid.

“Jesus, not you again,” yelled the old man. He walked back to where Tony was picking and said, “I know you’re not serious. Why are you wasting my time?”

“I’m not bothering you, asshole.”

“Christ on a stick! Who do you think you are? Get out of my store or I’ll call the cops to throw you out.”

Tony felt his blood rise and he wanted nothing more than to beat the living crap right out of the old man. Instead, though, he forced a smile, the used-car salesman smile he knew so well.

“Sure, I’ll leave. Fuck you very much.”

He held the guitar above his head and let it crash to the floor. The old man knelt down to pick it up and Tony knocked him with his hip as he pushed by him to get to the door.

“Have a nice day,” he said. He glanced back to see the owner lying on the floor rubbing his knee.

* * *

Guitars First was one of the smallest music stores in the Seattle area. It was twenty years old and had a steady clientele, mostly of students from the University of Washington and a smaller group of former hippies who were now in their sixties and seventies and who still longed for the golden age of music.

Deb Stewart played guitar herself and was one of the students who gravitated to the store. She’d never been able to buy her own, since she was well aware of how much debt she’d already run up in her first two years of university. At night, she’d lie awake at night and occasionally have panic attacks, wondering how in God’s name she could ever pay back the money she owed, even when she graduated. What did a degree in Literature allow somebody to do these days?

So, she’d sometimes wander over to Guitars First after class and strum a few chords and play a game of
What If?

What if I’d chosen a more practical major?

What if I’d listened to my parents and just got a job after high school?

What if Lawrence had been the kind of boyfriend I hoped he would be, rather than the kind who dumped me when he found out my finances?

What if I wasn’t the loneliest girl I’ve ever known?

What if I wasn’t always afraid?

Her heart hurt whenever she asked herself these questions. Sometimes, strumming on a nice Hanson guitar would help ease her mind, and sometimes it took her away completely as she allowed Katy Perry and Lady Gaga to flow through her fingers. She never suggested to anybody that she was any good, but she was okay. The chords worked magic to relax her.

Three weeks ago, the lady who ran the shop asked if she wanted a part-time job.

All Deb could think about was the small bit of easing of her budget a job would bring, and she couldn’t help giving the owner a spontaneous hug.

It was only later, walking home, that she wondered how she ever thought she could pull it off.

Fortunately, the store had few customers, and most of the ones that came in knew where things were and didn’t need her help except to make sure there was fresh coffee in the back and to ring up the sale. The coffee sometimes brought in people who had no intention of buying, but it was a nice touch. She didn’t know of any other store that offered free coffee just for browsing.

Tonight, the store had been empty since she started work an hour ago. She was reading a new horror novel by Brian W. Matthews on her iPad, loving the hell out of it, when the small bell over the door tinkled.

Her heart sank as a man walked in, nudged the door shut, and looked around as if he’d never seen the store before. Soon, his gaze went to her and he smiled.

Oh, God, he wants to talk.

Deb took a deep breath and told herself to relax. She forced a smile and wanted to say, “Can I help you?” but nothing came out. Her mouth hung open and she clamped it shut as soon as she realized she was tongue-tied.

Her heart was beating fast enough that it felt like a jack-hammer in her chest and she grasped the edge of the table in front of her as if she’d fall down without its support.

Maybe she would.

The man shuffled toward her but looked around the store as he did it. When he got to the counter, he said, “Don’t recognize you. New?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to try to speak again. She cursed herself internally.

He looked like he was about 40, dark hair, handsome, a set of twinkle-eyes and a smile that looked like he must always wear it.

“Shy?”

She nodded again and let out a long breath. “I’ve been here a few weeks, but it’s—”

“Hard. I can tell. Don’t worry, I’m a nice guy. I actually work at a music store much like this one. I just like to get out once in a while and see what’s new with the competition. Mind if I look around?”

He smiled again and she felt her body freeze.

She shook her head and forced herself to add, “Coffee?”

“Not just now, thanks. Come on over with me.”

He held out his hand to her, but her body wanted to be a granite statue. Then his smile widened even more, and she somehow felt the courage. She reached and took his hand and they walked over to the guitar section.

“You must play. What type of music do you like?”

“Recent rock,” she whispered.

He looked at the selection and picked up an old acoustic Rebel. Classic form, black, sleek. “Beauty.” He glided his hands along the grain and held it up to the light. “Nice and true.”

Then he started to play a song. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. Funny and serious at the same time, a road trip, summer love, full of laugh and love.

She found herself smiling and nodding along with the beat. When he was done, she asked, “What’s that one? I don’t recognize it.”

It was the longest she’d ever talked to a customer.

“I wrote it.
Summer Drive
. It was one of my biggest hits, back in the day.

“You sang that? For real?”

He laughed. “You bet.”

She knew her mouth was open but not because of fear this time. She was 21 and had never met anybody famous before, and this guy must be famous.