Hey all you people. I am having way too much fun writing this thing, your reviews are extremely motivating! Please keep them coming! And also, when you read this chapter, please keep in mind that I do not plan anything in advance, I just do what I want when the time comes to do it. I have several big things planned out that will take a while to build up to, but each chapter just comes and forms itself, really. That being said, I really want to know what y'all think of this, so please, be very vocal! Toodles!

Jack groans as I seat myself at the piano and let my hands hover over the black and white keys. What do I play? What do I even know how to play anymore? I search my memory frantically for something that Jack can sing to. Most of the pieces that I learned were classical, so there wasn't any singing involved. I know some really basic versions of popular songs, I suppose…and then it clicks. Don't Stop Believin', by Journey. I know how to play that! Thank God for YouTube videos, I think to myself as I begin to pick out the correct notes.

"You ready?" I look back at the chair where he was sitting and find it empty. My heart starts to sink. Did he sneak away?

"Ready." His voice almost makes me jump. I don't know how I didn't notice him moving to sit at the edge of the piano bench next to me, but there he is. I nod briskly and start playing in earnest, giving him a significant look to cue his starting lyrics.

Just a small town girl
Livin' in a lonely world
She took the midnight train
Goin' anywhere
Just a city boy
Born and raised in South Detroit
He took the midnight train
Goin' anywhere

The chords are really simple, which gives me a little room for embellishments, but I'm finding it difficult for some reason to concentrate on both playing and listening to Jack singing as well. He seems a little reluctant, but I keep playing. He's not getting out of this so easily.

A singer in a smoky room
The smell of wine and cheap perfume
For a smile they can share the night
It goes on and on and on

Strangers waiting
Up and down the boulevard
Their shadows searching
In the night
Streetlight people
Livin' just to find emotion
Hidin' somewhere in the night

I stop playing there, and Jack heaves a sigh of relief. "I can't remember how the rest of the song goes," I say, and it's not a lie. I haven't played the piano, let alone that song in particular, in a long time.

"I told you I couldn't sing," he says jokingly. I laugh a little. I have to admit, he doesn't have the best singing voice, although it's definitely passable.

"You'd better not quit your day job."

"Ouch. That hurts. You're supposed to say, 'No, Jack, it was really wonderful. I could listen to you sing for hours on end.' You're supposed to make me feel good about myself."

"You value lies over honesty?" How ironic, coming from me.

"When it involves my ego, of course."

"I'll keep that in mind during this project."

Jack throws his head back to laugh, causing his baseball cap to slide off his head. Seeing his dark hair in person sends a shock through me. For some reason, it still surprises me to see his hair. Whenever I think of Jack, I think of white hair and blue eyes, not dark hair. It effectively reminds me that he is not the same person that I used to know, and neither am I the person he used to know. In fact, he doesn't know me at all. All of this flashes through my head in the few moments it takes for Jack to reach behind him and snatch up the cap again.

He smiles a small smile as he fits the hat back onto his head.

"Attached to that thing much, are you?" I ask.

"This is the hat my dad gave me the last time we hung out together before my parents' divorce was finalized, so yeah, you could say that."

I drop my eyes, embarrassed both by my comment and by the simple, straightforward way that he said that. "I'm sorry," I start, "I didn't know."

He shrugs. "No biggie. He wasn't a very good dad anyway, and my mom's a lot happier now that he's gone, but I still like to keep this, you know? Something to remember the good times with."

"I know the feeling," I say, thinking of my shoe box at home. Suddenly I find it strange that Jack is telling me all of these deeply personal things about himself. Why is he telling me? Does he suspect something? Maybe I've been acting too much like Elsa around him, but I really can't help it. I'm not Clara, I never was. Tone it down a bit though, would you?

I stand up abruptly and take up my seat on the ground again, setting my notebook in front of me as if it were a shield between Jack and I. "So, back to the song."

"Yes," he says, suddenly business-like. He's taken over the piano bench and is now sitting cross-legged on it, holding his guitar and randomly plucking strings. "I think it's safe to say that I will not be singing, correct?"

I let out a long sigh. "Well, I guess not unless we're truly desperate, unfortunately. But if I'm singing, this will need a lot of work. I don't like being in front of crowds of people."

Jack just smiles. "We have plenty of time, so don't stress about that. We'll come to it when we come to it."

I nod. "True. Okay, now where do we go from here?"

He's silent for a moment, thinking. "I guess…" he trails off, then jumps back in. "I guess we should decide what the story we want to tell is. Most songs tell some kind of a story, don't they? We need to figure out what ours is."

"A story, huh? You got any good ones?"

"Not that I can think of off the top of my head."

"Okay, well, if that's our first step, we start there. Let's reconvene in a few hours or something, that way we'll each have plenty of time to think about this story thing and then we'll get back together and talk about that. Sound good?"

"Sure thing," Jack says as he slowly raises himself from the piano bench. "I'll see you around 3, then. Same place?"

"Sure."

"See ya soon!" he calls as he leaves the dining hall. I sit in silence until his footsteps fade away and I hear the faint squeak of the doors to the building closing, then I return to my seat on the piano bench. "What kind of story do I want to tell?" I ask myself the question out loud. I like talking to myself – literally – because it helps me think of concrete answers. If everything's always just in my head, it remains abstract, merely thought rather than action.

After only a few minutes of thinking, though, my brain is ready to burst. "I don't know any stories! I give up for now." I pull my phone from my pocket. "Oh a new message. Yay somebody likes me!" I mutter under my breath as I open it. Then I freeze. The number isn't one that I recognize, but I know who it is immediately. It couldn't possibly be anyone else, and that's what makes it so frightening.

Unknown – Elsa Jane Winters. I found your secret, Clara.

How could he have figured that out? Unless he looked through records and other official papers that he shouldn't have access to. Well, now that I think about it, he could have hacked into some websites that had this information or something. Who knows? But now…he could tell someone and ruin everything. The life I had built up for myself for almost three years could come crumbling down in the blink of an eye. True, I eventually wanted to go back to my old life, but I like the one I have now. If anyone's going to tear down those walls, it's going to be me. And no one else.

Staring at the message, I'm surprised that I don't feel more scared. Scared isn't the right word to describe how I'm feeling right now. I'm not scared. I'm angry.

E – Pitch. What do you want?

It only takes a few minutes to receive a response from him, but it only makes me more upset. I can just imagine him, sitting in some dark room with his gleaming yellow eyes and greasy black hair, tormenting me, taunting me.

P – Nothing, yet. But I'll get in touch with you again when I do.

E – In the meantime, go to hell.