When Devils Sing(103)
The shed’s door suddenly swung open from the wind, sending sheets of rain slanting across the floor. As Isaiah scrambled to shut it, he knocked over the box of old camera equipment he’d received for his birthday, badly stubbing his toe. Once the door was closed and secure, he took stock of the mess now scattered around him.
“I got it,” Isaiah said, kneeling to clean it up.
He made slow work of returning the equipment to the box. He’d barely had a chance to go through it all since Grandma Bee had given it to him. He still couldn’t believe what a lucky flea market find it had been for her. A half-opened envelope of film negatives caught his eye then. The antique negatives were dark, high-contrast images, barely discernible in the dim light.
He moved to the electric lamp, holding the negatives up. When the light finally caught them, Isaiah squinted against the images, struggling to make sense of what he saw. He held them closer, then froze.
They were gruesome depictions of a slaughter—of bodies strung up in trees by their feet, their stomachs cut open and bleeding.
As if the negatives were on fire, he dropped them, stumbling backward to the floor. He held his hand over his mouth, struggling not to vomit.
“Isaiah?” Neera’s voice barely registered.
The negatives were clearly half a century old, at least, with time distorting and warping the identities of those in the photos. But the effect was the same—someone had photographed those poor people as they were viciously killed. And somehow, through a cruel twist of fate, the photos ended up in Isaiah’s possession.
Fate wasn’t a concept Isaiah indulged in, but what else could he call this? One way or another, he was meant to uncover the truth of Lake Clearwater and reveal it to the world.
“I know how we’re going to save everyone tomorrow,” Isaiah said, holding the negatives in his hand.
NEERA
20 HOURS
ISAIAH’S BMW IDLED outside Grant Langley’s home, the massive house glowing in the late stormy night. The threat of a tornado had long since passed, leaving a steady pouring of rain in its wake.
Isaiah turned in the seat to face Neera. “You remember what to say?”
Neera nodded, recalling their hastily made plan. “I know how to make a bargain.”
The three said their goodbyes and be carefuls and then she was at Grant’s door. Right back where she’d started earlier that day, though it felt like a lifetime ago after everything she’d learned. But she couldn’t carry that weariness or fear on her face. No, she needed to be in complete control when speaking to Grant. After all, she was about to make a business deal that would change her entire life.
When Grant answered the door, he merely raised an eyebrow by way of greeting.
“Can we talk?” Neera asked, lingering in the rain, tempering the anxiety from coloring her words.
Grant stepped aside, letting her in from the storm. He motioned her to leave her muddy shoes by the door, then materialized a towel from the nearest closet. Without another word, he disappeared down the hall.
After drying off her damp hair, Neera trailed after him into the living room. Grant sat at the bench of his vintage grand piano, his back to her as he played a familiar, melancholy tune.
“They say you meet the devil down in Georgia,” Grant sang, “when there ain’t no options left.”
His rendition was markedly different from Ajay’s. Where her uncle’s singing voice had been rich and soulful, Grant’s was flat and lifeless. Neera understood at once that Grant was merely the imitation of a musician, without any of the parts that brought a song to life. That was the difference between him and Ajay—that’s why their relationship had imploded.
Grant Langley had been playing pretend while Ajay Singh had always been the real thing.
“I’m not here to apologize,” Neera announced. “You don’t deserve it. But I am here to make an offer.”
Grant let the final key of “Three Brothers” fade out before he turned to look at Neera. “I’m listening.”
“When I play at the concert tomorrow night, I’m gonna win over every single person in the crowd. I already know it,” Neera began with as much confidence as she could muster. “So, let’s get right to it. You should sign me because you need me. You need my music to take your music empire further than it’s ever gone.”
Grant crossed his arms. “Oh?”
“Don’t bullshit me, Grant,” Neera said. “You know what I did—what I sold to get this far. You know what I’m willing to do to see my dreams become a reality. And you know the power my music holds, maybe even more than I do.”
Grant snorted. “What do you want, Neera? Just say it.”
“I want you to protect my family,” Neera said slowly. “Forgive my grandfather’s debt. Call off your family’s attack dog. Save my mom from Lake Clearwater’s sick ritual.”
“How do you know about…?” Grant shook his head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. What do I get out of all of this?”
“Me.”
Grant rose from the bench, slowly circling the living room to stand before her. “If we make this deal, I’ll own everything.”
“I know.”
“Your music will be mine,” Grant continued. “Every song, every EP, every album. Your image—mine. Your name—also mine. When you get onstage and sing, you’ll convince the audience of whatever I want you to. You’ll make them feel whatever I tell you to. Do you understand what you’d be signing away?”