“Alice is safe. She’s not hurt. She’s staying with my sister, in Oregon, tucked away from anyone looking to hurt her,” Jeanette’s eyes widen with understanding. Her daughter was safe but her life was still threatened. “She’s been on the run for a few months.”
“She got away from him?” her question answered a few of my own. They did know who Alice was with but I knew from the fear in her eyes, they didn’t know where she disappeared to. Something told me they cared about their daughter, more than Alice believed.
“Yes, she got away,” I can’t help the surge of anger that flows into my veins. I know she said everyone tried to warn her about him but still, her family should have done more. “Seven months ago.”
Jeanette’s eyes close and she takes a deep breath. A moment of relief washes over her.
“Seven months?” her eyes open and she frowns deeply again. “Where’s she been? Why hasn’t she called?”
“She was afraid this would be the first place he’d come looking for her and she didn’t want to put you in danger,” I explain, watching the frown disappear. A line of sadness settles into the lines of her face. “She’s been running, unable to stay in one place for too long. He’s always one step behind and she’s had to look over her shoulder the entire time. She’s been in Oregon with me for a month. Erik found her at a ratty motel in Los Angeles and I helped her escape. My sister and I gave her a safe place to live while the police track him down.”
“She shouldn’t have worried about our safety, she could’ve come home,” she insists, as a tear rolls down her cheek. She brushes it away. “I could’ve kept her safe.”
“She wasn’t willing to take the chance,” I touch her arm, wanting to comfort her. I recognize the grief pulsing around her, she missed her daughter. “She doesn’t know I’m here and she’ll be pissed when she finds out.”
“You’re going to tell her you were here?”
“Not exactly,” I stand up and step back. “I was hoping you and Mr. Michaelson would join us in Oregon. I know she misses you all and whether she believes it or not, she needs her family.”
I look around, speaking of her father. I hadn’t noticed another person anywhere in the house. “Your husband, Alice’s father…”
“Is dead,” she cuts me off. She clasps her hands together and stares down at her nails, pretending to pick at them. “Two years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice low. I find it odd Sneak missed this piece of information. “I didn’t know…”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“Alice’s grandfather?”
“He’s been better,” she tilts her head. Something behind me catches her attention. I turn my head and see a picture across the room, one placed in line of sight for anyone entering into the house to see. I walk over to it and pick it up.
In the photo was of a younger version Alice and an older man. They pose perfectly for the photo. He’s staring down at her with tenderness and love. She holds up a beautiful brandy colored violin in her hands, a smile bigger than the sun plastered on her face.
“A Stradivarius, original,” Jeanette explains, taking the photo from me. “It was a gift from Carter, her grandfather. He was so proud of her.”
“This was when she was acceptance to Juilliard?”
“She told you,” her voice is distant but I hear her stand, her bare feet quiet on the wooden floors as she moves toward me. She stops beside me, her eyes curious. “Her father didn’t want her to audition but she begged and pleaded for months. We never thought she’d get in. She was so young. Should have known age is just a number when it comes to talent. She was one of a kind and they saw it in her. We were able to push off her attending for a couple of years, that was Marcus’ doing. He wasn’t ready to let her go off into the world. Has she ever played for you?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” I nod, thinking about her fingers. I wasn’t sure if she even wanted to try playing again, the subject was sensitive. “What happened after she left?”
She takes the photo from my hands and sets it back down onto the table, adjusting its positioning before walking away.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asks over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner of the quaint house. Images of a young Alice standing in this very room, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, danced through my mind. “I just brewed a fresh pot, decaf.”