Blackbird (Redemption 1)

I knew it was the end of July, and a quick glance at the date on the email I was responding to confirmed that, but other than that, the date meant nothing to me. Briar had been there for almost exactly three months—and that was when I wondered if I’d missed her birthday since I didn’t even know when it was.

Before I could ask my driver what exactly the date meant, he cleared his throat and said, “In all the time I’ve worked for you, you’ve shipped a package on the twenty-eighth of every month, Mr. Holt. That was yesterday, sir.”

I stilled as I fought back memory after memory and wondered how I could’ve forgotten—

My blackbird. Of course she’d be the one to make me forget.

No one and nothing else had ever made me forget about her, but Briar had.

With one look, with one plea, she could have me forgetting the world.

I swallowed thickly and nodded. “We’ll do it tomorrow.” Without waiting for his response, I turned to walk into the house, and went back to tapping on my phone as I called out, “Take the rest of the night off.”

But my mind wasn’t on my driver or the email I was sending or the package I had to ship—all I could think about was the girl I could now hear singing from upstairs.

The girl who could make me forget.

The girl who made me want dangerous things I couldn’t have.

I shrugged out of my jacket, draping it over the banister of the stairs as I headed up, loosening my tie, and rolling up my sleeves as I followed that voice.

Soft, but commanding. Full, with a hint of hesitation that made it alluring, made you want to follow that voice anywhere, even to your death.

As I rounded the corner into her bedroom and took in my blackbird, I knew I would do just that.

I knew the moment she felt my presence, knew it in the way the song abruptly ended, as it always did.

A siren terrified of her own voice . . .

I was a few feet from her when her words stopped me.

“My nanny taught me to sing.” She turned to face me, a sad smile playing on her lips before falling. “I can’t remember a time with her when she wasn’t singing or teaching me. Her name was Nadia . . . she had such a beautiful voice.” Her words were thick with emotion, and every instinct told me to pull her into my arms, but I didn’t move.

Briar tensed if I mentioned her singing or her fear associated with it, and never volunteered anything about her past to help me understand that fear. Now that she was talking, I wouldn’t do anything that would hinder that.

“One time when I was young—I think I was four—my parents decided to go on a vacation without her and quickly realized they didn’t know how to be parents. We were at a park that had some kind of farmers market set up. There were vendors everywhere. And they . . . well, they didn’t lose me . . . I lost them because they forgot I was there at all and just left.” She laughed sadly and looked up at me. “They were so used to being alone, and so used to having someone else take care of me, they didn’t even realize I wasn’t with them for hours.

“I’d been so afraid when I couldn’t find them that I’d found my way back to the parking lot and ran around it screaming for them. Whenever anyone tried to approach me to ask if I was okay, I’d run away and hide. By the time they came back to look for me, it was dark, and a police officer was already trying to get me to go to the stat

ion with him. I remember my parents telling the officer that our nanny had lost me that afternoon and had been too afraid to tell them until then.”

My arms were folded across my chest to hide my fisted hands and the way my body was beginning to shake with anger at her parents—an anger I knew all too well. My mom hadn’t been around, and my dad had destroyed his life, leaving me with the wolves without so much as a “Hope you survive.”

“I was terrified of everything after that,” she whispered. “Terrified of being alone, terrified of the dark, just . . . everything in a way I’d never been before. My parents left for business trips so often, and every time I would scream and scream, so sure they were never coming back for me. But Nadia was always there, and when I was completely inconsolable, she would hold me close and tell me to sing with her. And then she would start, and she wouldn’t stop until my thrashing and screaming had ended, and I was singing too.” Her downcast eyes held mine, and her shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. “And that’s how it began. Any fear, no matter how big or small, she would scoop me up and tell me to sing until it became second nature.

“And then not long after I turned fifteen, Nadia woke me up in the middle of the night, and she looked so worried. I remember that look so clearly and the way it made me feel . . .” The corners of her mouth tipped up, but there was no amusement in her eyes. “I automatically began singing as soon as I registered her anxiety, and I didn’t even know what was going on. And then she said to me, ‘Every fear and every worry fades to nothing when you sing, Briar Rose. Your voice is your comfort and your security. Don’t let anyone take it from you.’”

Silence fell between us, heavy and smothering. When a minute passed without Briar continuing, and then another, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why was she worried that night?”

“Because she knew what was going to happen the next day.” When Briar looked at me again, the weight that had been pressing down on her was gone, and her sadness had been replaced with bitterness. “For the first time in . . . years, my parents were interested in me. Wanted to be with me, do things with me. They planned this whole day out with me. I remember being so excited, and then the next thing I knew, we were going from place to place, and my parents were making me sing for people. Telling me how they were going to make me famous, how I was going to make them rich—like they didn’t already have so much money they were drowning in it.

“Suddenly my mother wanted me with her all the time. She didn’t want me with Nadia even though Nadia was the one who kept our house running . . . the one who felt like a mom to me. And then my mother started grooming me to be the girl she thought I needed to be, the adult she wanted me to be. She told me how to act and what to say, who to see and not to see. She told me what I would need to look for in a husband one day . . . all while they constantly used me for my voice. Anytime we were anywhere, ‘Have you heard Briar’s voice? Briar, sing for this gentleman.’” That bitterness in her eyes burned as she continued. “And soon, men my father’s age wanted to touch my hand or my arm, the small of my back or the back of my thigh. They wanted me to stand closer to them so they could accidentally brush my breast or tease my waist as they showed me pictures and made me read contracts while they caged me against the desk to read over my shoulder.”

I was vibrating as white-hot rage coursed through my veins, as visuals I didn’t want flashed through my mind. I already had a bullet for every single one of those men, and I didn’t even know their names.

“‘Just remember to keep smiling at him, Briar,’ my mother would say. ‘Don’t wear those pants, Briar, a skirt is more fitting for this meeting—a shorter skirt. He didn’t mean to touch you, Briar, he was just reaching for the paper. We could’ve had a record deal years ago if you would just keep your mouth shut, Briar.’ It was endless for years, and I began hating my voice and my parents’ money as they paid off man after man at these record labels so they wouldn’t sue us because I’d thrown coffee on one or kneed another when they touched me.