The “Blue Note” in Brooklyn was dark, smelling of stale bourbon and old wood–the perfect place for a man trying to hide a ghost. Marcus Thorne led “Elena” to a booth in the back, shielded by shadows. He had brought her here because the silence of the safehouse was driving her mad, but as the house band struck up a complex jazz standard, he realized he had made a mistake.
The saxophonist began a solo, weaving a discordant melody. Beside him, Elena closed her eyes. Without meaning to, she began to hum.
It wasn’t a simple melody. It was a perfect, improvised counter-harmony, hitting notes that a novice wouldn’t even know existed. The sound was rich, soulful, and technically flawless.
The band leader, a grey-haired pianist, stopped playing. He peered into the darkness of the booth. “Hey,” he called out, squinting. “Who is that? You got a voice like an angel, sweetheart.”
Marcus panic-flashed in his chest. He grabbed Elena’s hand, silencing her. “She’s shy,” Marcus lied quickly to the room. “Just a hum.”
Elena looked at the band leader, then at her own throat, terrified by the talent living inside her amnesiac body. Marcus signaled for the check immediately. Hiding Victoria Vance in a city built on music was going to be impossible.