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well as Celtic fiddle, had loved to perform with Thea. Thea had called it a duel instead of a duet, as they often tried to outplay each other.
    Jake almost heard that poignant violin playing alongside Thea, with the sounds of the mountain providing counterpoint beneath it all. He could picture Becca’s blonde hair swirling around her, those blue eyes sparkling over the polished wood as her bow danced on the strings. Even when the song was solemn, Becca had never been able to do anything but smile when she was playing. She’d been so young and so talented. So full of life.
    Damn it all.
    She was only nineteen fucking years old , he wanted to yell. And his father had only been fifty when he’d been shot five years later, leaving Jake to deal with the mess left behind, both in the department and at home.
    Like a huge black wave, grief threatened to overwhelm him. At the funerals and every other damn time the pain threatened, he’d used anger to push it back down. Anger at his mom for driving drunk that night. Anger at the damn doctors that got Becca hooked on those pain meds. Anger at his father for giving up while his family disintegrated around him—for walking right into a bullet.
    When Thea slid from that piece into another that they had all played together, the mournful “Ashokan Farewell,” he gave up. Urged on by Thea’s flute and that ghostly fiddle in his head, he sank into the grass and finally let the grief overtake him. It felt like a summer storm breaking against the mountains.
    If Thea’s flute hadn’t been keening so loudly, she might have heard him. But she kept playing, moving from the farewell to another piece—something he couldn’t place. She was playing it with more than her fingers and her breath, she was playing with her soul. It was powerful and piercing.
    He wiped at his face. Damn it all, he couldn’t even find the will to get up and back away. Thea was playing out the grief he hadn’t seen her express at the funeral. And she was taking him along.
    Her sorrow and his. It was all the same.
    So he crouched there, letting the music carry him along into another piece her Pops had often asked her to play. This one he knew. An old Irish folk song with a waltz tempo. “A Stór Mo Chroí”.
    The pain eased. Although the flute still sang of love and loss, it was no longer so overwhelming. Jake lifted his head, expecting the mountain to be shrouded in fog and dripping from the passing storm he’d imagined, but it was still a bright sunny afternoon. Only his face was wet. He swiped at it with his sleeve. When the last note faded, he shook himself and pushed to his feet.
    Then she surprised him. No longer did he hear the lovely sound of the Burkart, but the first notes of “Drowsy Maggie” on an Irish whistle. Normally a lively reel intended for dancing, Thea was playing it slow and solemn, as if she wasn’t quite ready to leave the sadness behind. But as she played, the tempo increased and became more upbeat. Jake’s fingers itched to join in as she bridged into another fast and furious reel that would bring anyone to their feet to dance, “Toss the Feathers.” His group had the same arrangement on their playlist for this week. He smiled. It made perfect sense to his Scotch-Irish soul. First you grieve, then you dance.
    He would love to have Thea play with them. That would be something. They had no flute player at the moment, and he was sure there would be people in the audience who would remember her performances from years ago. Her ability had only matured—maybe she’d picked up a couple of tricks at Curtis before she left. Despite what he had feared, Thea hadn’t given up her music. She had been playing somewhere, even if it was only for herself.
    His feet moved him forward, almost involuntarily. He knew Thea too well. As he approached, he saw that she had what he assumed was the dog from the car on a very long leash looped around her waist. It was hard to believe that white ball of