I actually wish it was a spider...

A curled lock of mahogany brown hair, tied with a cheap, cream colored ribbon, lies on several pages of sheet music. My stomach turns. I'm trembling, unable to move for nearly a minute.

Someone's lock of hair is on my floor.

Hair in a ribbon.

Someone left hair for me to find, like a terrifying gift. A threat. A horrible promise.

This is what I'll do to you—cut your hair and tie it in a ribbon. This is what someone else will find when I'm done playing with the rest of you.

Shuddering, I back away.

Then, another detail stands out. I swallow back my nausea and force myself to think.

The sheet music. It isn't mine, that's the one thing I never leave on the floor or anywhere out. There is one aspect of my life where I am psychotically organized, and that's to keep my music filed.

Grasping the edge so the hair will slide off, I pick it up.

Adieu, Notre Petite Table

A famous aria from the opera Manon. I sang it at Julliard for class, but this, I am sure of it, isn't my copy.

Manon sings this when she has to make a choice between staying humble, but with the love of her life, or leaving him for another and live in luxury. She chooses to leave...

It's a message.

Whoever came in here knows music, knows me, and knows that I'm making a decision about Stay Gold.

Someone who either talks to me or watches me.

Someone who cut a lock of hair off another woman and put it here for me to find.

My hand shakes too hard to hold the sheet music. I drop it and shove the nightgown in my bag. Stumbling to my feet, I head to the bathroom for my toiletries. I barely see what I'm doing—all I can picture is the sheet music.

That thick lock of hair in a loose curl.....

The killer targeting singers. He knows music, especially classical music.

My mind races.

Devon?

Oh my god—Jay-Jay.

No. Not him.

And yet. Did he have time to come here after I left the studio this morning? He played the Mozart piece for me, knowing I have it memorized. He knows everything about me.

My phone pings with a message.

I'm here.

Seconds later, Devon's heavy footsteps pound on the stairs, coming up in a hurry. I finish packing my things, glance around my room, and finally take the sheet music from the floor.

I can't leave music on the floor, whether it was put there by a kidnapping murderer or not.

Then I want to smack myself. Fingerprints. Could there be fingerprints on the paper? I'm not sure, but I hold it gingerly by the edges and set it on the small side table I use for make-up. I also don't want the hair on my floor, so I take it with my fingernails and toss it on the table, too.

"Goodbye, little table," I whisper wryly. "And goodbye serial killer music, and lock of hair."

Devon reaches my door. He stops when he sees me at my bedroom. "Fuck, they really trashed the place. Tell me everything you know."

"Actually, I trashed the place, digging around for my stashes of money this morning. Then I found this on the table, full."

I cross my small living room to the jar with the money in it. And I want to hit myself again. Fingerprints....

"We should call the cops." I dangle this possibility to see how he reacts, especially if he rejects getting the police involved. "This isn't all."

He nods thoughtfully. "I'll call my friend. What else?"

"There was sheet music from the opera Manon under my pajamas. He must have put it there on purpose. And worse—"

Cold rage transforms Devon's face. I step back, eyes wide. Either he is an incredible actor and he pretending, or he would kill the man if he showed up this instant.

"We're going now. We can wait in the car for the detective at the police department."

"Wait."

He narrows his eyes, nostrils flared. I continue.

"A lock of brown hair, tied up in a ribbon was with the music."

"Out." His voice is a keg of powder, about to blow.

"Wait, I just need to—" I squeeze past him into the hallway. It's now or never. Not giving him a chance to stop me, I ring the bell to my neighbor's, setting off a discordant chorus of mad barking. A moment later, she answers.

I step to the side so she can see Devon, too.

"Mrs. Parker, there's a problem," I say. I watch her gaze flick from mine to Devon's. Does she recognize him? Handsome face, nice wool coat?

It doesn't seem like it. She squints in mistrust, her dogs sniffing and barking angrily. They don't seem to recognize him, either.

"My cousin, Billy," I say, trying one last time to tease recognition out of her. To see if she glances Devon's way.

"What about him?"

"How many times did he stop by when I wasn't here?"

"What's this about? He's a nice man, you gave him a key."

Devon inhales sharply. He moves forward. "Can you identify this cousin that came to Avery's apartment for the police?"

"Police? Who are you?"

Finally, I can heave a sigh of relief. It isn't Devon. But it still might be someone I call my friend.

I whip out my phone and find a picture. "Is this the man who said he was my cousin?"

I hold up the picture of Jay-Jay for her to see. She sniffs and shakes her head, irritated. "That scruffy thing? I told you, Billy is handsome and looks nice. Don't you know your own cousin?"

Now my shoulders sag and my legs weaken. Adrenaline is the only thing keeping me up at this point and it's draining fast.

"Devon," I say, turning to him. "We need the police."

Someone out there is watching me, and he's made me a terrible promise...

*** ONC 980 words. Thank you for reading!!! Big hugs and I hope you are having a great day! ***