Maria was scared. The cops who had picked her up at the homeless shelter had barely said a word to her. They had put her in the back of a car, and then on a flight that landed in Washington, DC, and finally into a windowless van where they played weird static so that she couldnโt hear anything going on outside the vehicle.
It had been a bizarre, disorienting experience.
They had also taken her bag and with it the notebook that heldย Worlds & Time.
She wanted it back.
She didnโt have much in this life, but she had that, and she was proud of it, and she couldnโt afford to lose it. Maria thought she could probably recreate the last few pages, but not the whole thing. If she lost it forever, it would be like losing a piece of herself. Because there was a piece of her in those songs. Her pain. Her hopes. Her struggles. Her beliefs. Those songs were a reflection of her. And she wanted to share them with the world. She wanted others to see themselves in that music, to know that they werenโt alone. To her, that was part of the magic of art.
But whatever was happening wasnโt about her music. At least, she didnโt think so. That guy outside the shelter. It was somehow connected to him. She shouldnโt have hit him. He was probably a cop. Undercover. Or some kind of confidential informant. She was in deep now, by the looks of this placeโand the fact that they had put her on a private FBI plane. She wasnโt in a county lockup, that was for sure.
Her rage. Thatโs what had landed her in this mess.
That fire inside of her had fueled the success of her music career. But it was also a curse. She wished she could turn it off like a flame in a gas fire. Another part of her wondered who she would be without that fire. If she
could still create incredible work without all the hurt and hate deep inside of her.
Whatever she had done, it had landed her in this conference room, inside what she assumed was a prison. She was confined here. But she also had a roof over her head. And she had been fed. Maria was thankful for those two things, and the thought laid bare just how far she had fallenโto be thankful for a warm place to stay, even if she couldnโt leave when she wanted to. The realization that being a prisoner was an improvement in her circumstances was a gut punch in and of itself.
The door opened, and a tall man with a toned face strode in. His eyes were locked on her, emotionless, studying her like a hunter might size up its prey. Under his unmoving gaze, that was exactly what Maria felt like.
He spoke first.
โGood evening, Miss Santos. My name is Gerhard Richter.โ โLook, I didnโt hit that guy.โ
โTo whom are you referring?โ
โThat creep outside the shelter. He said something lewdโโ
The man held up a hand, making her fall silent. For a moment, he was still as a statue. Somehow that made her nervous.
โThis isnโt about thatโฆ creep.โ โItโs not?โ
โItโs about something vastly more important.โ โYou a cop?โ
โI am not. Not in the sense youโre asking. Though my role here is law enforcement, of a sort.โ
โWhat laws?โ
โThe kind that rule us all. The laws of worlds and time.โ โYou read my notebook.โ
โYes.โ
โI want it back.โ
โI donโt think that will be possible.โ
โPlease. Itโs all Iโve got. What can it hurt?โ
โIf Iโm right, Miss Santos, at the end of this, you wonโt need that notebook. But your work of art will be complete.โ
โWhat are you talking about? Are you high? Where am I? I want a lawyer.โ
โDo you know what time does to a tree, Miss Santos?โ
She stared at him.
โTime makes a tree grow branches. The tree watches the sun rise and fall, a continuous loop with no beginning or ending. Sometimes the tree stands in the light. Sometimes in darkness.โ Richter paused. โAt this moment, you are in the dark. But there is light, Miss Santos. The sun always rises. The question of a life is whether we possess the courage to wait long enough for the dawn.โ
