Page 292 of Ruthless Court

“I’m talented.”

Her cheeks turn faintly pink.

Interesting.

I stretch one arm along the back of her chair.

Not around her.

Close.

My fingertips rest a few inches from her shoulder.

Hannah notices.

Her eyes flick toward my arm.

Then back to the stage.

She doesn’t move away.

Better.

The next performer is a woman in her twenties carrying a battered acoustic guitar covered in stickers.

She sits on a stool.

“This is about my mother,” she says. “She died last year, and I found nineteen saved voicemails from her that I never deleted because I’m apparently incapable of managing my inbox like an adult.”

The room changes.

No one laughs.

The woman looks down at her guitar.

“I used pieces of them in the song.”

Hannah goes still beside me.

The first chords are simple.

Nothing flashy.

Then a woman’s recorded voice comes softly through the speaker.

Call me when you get home.

The singer answers it with music.

Another voicemail.

Don’t forget your coat.

A lyric about being twenty-three and still wanting someone to remind you that rain exists.

Another recording.

Love you, kiddo.