Chapter 2 - The House of the Broken Heart
August Rail’s mansion sat beyond a private gate on the edge of the river, where the city lights ended and the Mississippi became a dark ribbon under the moon.
Marin knew that because August described it while they drove.
She had asked him to.
“Don’t hide the place from me,” she said.
“What?”
“People describe things differently when they forget I can’t see. They either become vague or overly dramatic. I prefer details.”
August had looked almost amused.
“The house is old. Three stories. Brick exterior. White columns. The river is behind it. There are 2 oak trees near the front gate.”
“Anything else?”
“A cracked statue beside the east wall.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s your house.”
He had gone quiet.
Marin smiled.
“You see? You’re already learning.”
When they arrived, August personally led her through the front door.
Her cane clicked across marble.
She counted the echoes.
Large entrance.
High ceiling.
Staircase slightly left.
Hallway extending toward the rear.
She reached out and touched the banister.
Wood.
Old.
Polished repeatedly.
Not just by servants.
By someone who had stood there often.
“You live alone?”
“I have staff.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
He sounded tired.
Marin touched the banister again.
“Someone else uses this staircase.”
August stopped.
“How could you know?”
“The varnish is worn at hand height.”
“It’s been in the family for decades.”
“Then someone in the family stood here a lot.”
Another silence.
“Your mother?”
August’s hand tightened around the cane he carried for formal events.
“My brother.”
Marin felt his breathing change.
“What happened to him?”
“He died.”
“How?”
“You ask difficult questions.”
“You invited me.”
He exhaled.
“Car accident.”
Marin knew the answer was false before he finished.
She did not challenge him immediately.
Instead, she asked to see the piano.
August led her into a music room.
The instrument had been placed near enormous windows facing the river.
Marin set down her bag.
Then she touched the lid.
The Bösendorfer still smelled of wood, brass, and dust.
August remained by the doorway.
Marin began working.
For almost 2 hours, he said nothing.
At one point she asked him to turn down the air-conditioning because the strings were responding badly to the temperature.
He did.
She asked for a particular wrench.
He found it.
She asked whether anyone had played the piano since the auction.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I wanted you to be the first.”
Her hand paused.
“That’s strange.”
“I know.”
Marin smiled.
“You’re strange.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Eventually she pressed a key.
The note rang through the room.
It was nearly perfect.
She moved through the scale.
Then she stopped.
There.
One note was slightly flat.
“Interesting.”
August stepped closer.
“What?”
“You bought the piano because of the sound.”
“Yes.”
“Someone told you it was worth $200,000.”
“Yes.”
“You paid more.”
He frowned.
“How do you know?”
“Because the seller wanted it gone.”
August stared at her.
“You hear price in the strings?”
“No.”
She laughed.
“I hear dust.”
He almost smiled.
Marin tuned the final note.
Then rested her fingers on the keys.
The room became quiet.
August approached.
“Play something.”
“I’m not a pianist.”
“You tune pianos.”
“That doesn’t mean I play.”
“Why?”
“I stopped.”
“Why?”
Marin’s hand left the keys.
“Because Dela used to play.”
August said nothing.
She expected him to move away.
Instead, he sat on the bench.
“Play anyway.”
“I told you—”
“You don’t have to play for anyone else.”
Marin listened to his breathing.
The piano waited beneath her fingertips.
She began.
A simple melody.
Then another.
It was not technically perfect.
It was honest.
August listened.
When Marin finished, neither spoke.
Finally he said, “My brother used to sit there.”
She turned toward him.
“You said he died in a car accident.”
“Yes.”
“You’re lying again.”
August’s breathing stopped for a moment.
Marin did not feel victorious.
She felt sad.
“Tell me the truth.”
“My brother was murdered.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“Why?”
“He discovered something about my father.”
Marin folded her hands.
“What?”
August stood.
“My father runs this organization.”
“I thought you did.”
“I do.”
“That sounds contradictory.”
“It is.”
He walked toward the window.
“My father built everything. I inherited most of it when my brother died.”
“And your father?”
“Alive.”
“Does he approve of you?”
“No.”
The answer carried no bitterness.
Only exhaustion.
Marin closed the piano.
“Why did your brother’s death make you inherit everything?”
“Because my father believed I was more ruthless.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
That honesty caught her.
August continued.
“Six years ago, my brother found records showing someone inside our family was selling information to our rivals.”
“Who?”
“We never proved it.”
“What happened?”
“My brother planned to expose the person.”
“The person killed him.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you investigate?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“I found nothing.”
Marin rose.
“Maybe you were looking for the wrong thing.”
August turned.
“What do you mean?”
“You assumed betrayal would sound like a lie.”
He stared at her.
“Sometimes betrayal sounds like the truth.”
She gathered her tools.
“Show me your brother’s room.”
August hesitated.
“No one goes there.”
“Then maybe that’s why the answer is there.”
He led her upstairs.
The bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and old books.
Marin walked slowly.
She touched the desk.
The bed.
A shelf.
Then stopped.
“What?”
“There’s something behind this.”
She touched the wall.
A slight temperature change.
August moved the bookcase.
Behind it was a hidden compartment.
Inside were papers.
A photograph.
And a small brass key.
August took the photograph.
His brother stood beside another man.
Marin heard his breathing change.
“Who?”
“My father.”
“And the other?”
August hesitated.
“My chief adviser.”
“Where is he?”
“He died last year.”
Marin touched the brass key.
“What does it open?”
August looked at it.
“Nothing in this room.”
They searched the house.
The key opened a locked study drawer.
Inside was a ledger.
August turned pages.
Payments.
Dates.
Names.
Then he stopped.
One entry contained a payment made six years earlier.
To Dela Callaway.
Marin’s blood turned cold.
“No.”
She reached for the page.
Her fingers trembled.
August said her name.
“Marin.”
“No.”
She touched the ink as though the raised pressure of the pen might tell her it was false.
Dela.
Her sister.
Her dead sister.
She whispered, “Why would my sister be here?”
August stared at the page.
“I don’t know.”
Marin’s breathing became shallow.
Three years earlier, a fire had taken Dela.
At least that was what everyone had told her.
But if Dela had ever been connected to August Rail’s family, then the fire might not have been an accident.
August knelt beside her.
“I’m going to find out.”
She pulled away.
“You don't understand.”
“I do.”
“No. You don’t.”
She turned toward him.
“I watched my sister die.”
August’s face changed.
“I was there when they pulled her out.”
“Then I’m sorry.”
“You think that makes it easier?”
“No.”
His voice was quiet.
“It makes me understand why you’re afraid.”
She swallowed.
“Who wrote this payment?”
August looked at the ledger again.
“My adviser.”
“Then he knew your brother.”
“Yes.”
“And he knew my sister.”
“I need to know why.”
Marin slowly placed her hand on the ledger.
Then she felt something tucked beneath the page.
A strip of paper.
She pulled it free.
Braille dots had been pressed into the paper.
Her fingers moved over them.
Her heart stopped.
The message read:
MARIN, IF YOU FOUND THIS, DELA IS NOT DEAD.
She dropped the paper.
August caught it.
“What does it say?”
Marin could barely speak.
“My sister.”
He read the words aloud.
May you like
Then looked at her.
For the first time, the feared mafia boss looked as lost as she felt.
