There Is No Devil Sinners Duet Book 2 By Sophie Lark-pdfread

off the glossy black Steinway, I was hit with the horrible realization that I
wasn’t sure which key was middle C.
It sounds ridiculous after all the years I’ve played, but I always orient my
hands relative to the chipped golden script on our own piano, which reads
Bösendorfer across the fallboard, only missing the second “o.”
I stared at the keys, the seconds ticking past.
I could see my mother standing just offstage, already starting to pace in
agitation, snapping her fingers at me to start.
“I don’t know where to put my hands,” I whispered at her.
“Play the song,” she hissed at me.
I was already sweating under the blazing lights, my hands shaking as they
hovered above the keys.
Desperately, I repeated, “I don’t know where to start.”
She marched across the stage, furious and embarrassed, grabbing my arm and
wrenching me off the bench. She dragged me off, not listening as I tried to
explain that I could play it, I had practiced it over and over and knew it all by
heart, if she would just show me where to put my hands …
That was six months ago. It could be six years past and she’d still enjoy
punishing me for it.
They’re always watching, always waiting for me to make a mistake.
And that is the one thing in which I never disappoint them.
They can always count on me to fuck up.
The girls ahead look back over their shoulders, giggling and whispering
behind their hands.
I can’t hear what they’re saying because I’m wearing headphones. This is the
one gift Randall gave me that I truly love. He didn’t want to hear music
leaking out of my room. Wearing the headphones encloses me in my own
bubble of song. It protects and comforts me. My own little pod that follows
me wherever I go.