Chapter 3 - The Basement on 4th Street
The rain had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle by the time Jasper’s black sedan pulled up to the curb on 4th Street. The neighborhood was a stark contrast to the gated estates of Gold Coast. Here, the streetlights were dim, many of them shattered, and the buildings were grey brick walk-ups with rusted fire escapes clinging to their facades like iron skeletons.
Jasper sat in the driver's seat for a moment, checking the address he had pulled from the household employment agency’s emergency contact file.
Teresa Rose. Apartment 1B.
He got out of the car, adjusting the collar of his coat against the damp chill. He walked up the stone steps of the building and pushed open the heavy wooden door, which lacked a working latch. The hallway smelled of boiled cabbage, damp plaster, and old radiator heat.
He walked down the narrow corridor to the back, where a wooden door bore a faded plastic number 1B.
He knocked softly.
Inside, the sound of movement stopped abruptly. A few seconds later, Teresa’s voice came through the thin wood, tense and guarded. "Who is it? The rent isn't due until Friday, Mr. Miller."
"It's not Mr. Miller," Jasper said, keeping his voice low so as not to startle her. "It's Jasper. Jasper Whitmore."
A long silence followed. Jasper heard the sound of a chain lock being set, then the slow creak of the door opening two inches. Teresa looked out at him, her hair pulled back into a messy bun, her eyes red-rimmed and suspicious.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "I left your mother's house. I didn't take anything. You can check my bag if you want."
"I know you didn't take anything," Jasper said gently. "I came to apologize for what happened tonight. And... I need to talk to you about your husband."
Teresa’s expression hardened instantly. "We have nothing to talk about. Your family made it very clear where we stand. Please leave, Mr. Whitmore, before I call the building supervisor."
She began to close the door, but Jasper placed his hand against the frame—not forcefully, but firmly enough to stop it.
"He wrote the concerto, didn't he?" Jasper asked. "The piece my mother called The Lake Como Suite. It was David’s work."
Teresa stopped pushing the door. She looked at Jasper’s face, searching for deception, mock sympathy, or malice. She found none—only a deeply troubled young man whose conscience was clearly tearing him apart.
She slowly unhooked the chain and pulled the door open. "Come in. But be quiet. Emily just fell asleep."
The apartment was tiny. A single room served as the living room, kitchen, and bedroom. A small mattress lay in the corner, where Emily was curled up under a thin floral quilt, holding a worn brown teddy bear. In the center of the room was a folding card table with two plastic chairs. The walls were mostly bare, except for a few framed charcoal sketches of piano keys and a small photograph of a dark-haired man with kind eyes, sitting at an old upright piano with a baby in his lap.
Jasper looked around the sparse room, feeling an overwhelming wave of guilt. He set his coat over the back of a chair and sat down.
"My mother claims she bought the rights to David's music legally from a holding company," Jasper began.
Teresa let out a hollow, bitter laugh as she sat across from him. "Legally? Is that what she calls it?"
"Tell me what happened," Jasper said. "Please."
Teresa rested her elbows on the plastic table, staring at her intertwined fingers. "David was a genius, Mr. Whitmore. Not the kind that performs in tuxedos for rich patrons, but the kind who lived and breathed music. He taught music lessons at the community center and spent every night composing at his piano. Four years ago, when Emily was born, he wanted to finish his masterwork—a concerto dedicated to her."
"The piece Emily played tonight," Jasper said.
"Yes. He called it Lullaby for Emily. But three years ago, David got sick. A rare heart condition. The medication was expensive. The hospital bills piled up faster than we could pay them. He took out loans. Then a man named Arthur Vance approached him."
Jasper’s eyes narrowed. "Vance? The head of our family’s security detail?"
"He didn't say he worked for the Whitmores," Teresa said, her voice trembling slightly. "He said he represented a private cultural investment fund. He offered David a fifty-thousand-dollar advance to publish his catalog. David was desperate. He was in a hospital bed, terrified he was going to leave me and Emily with hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical debt."
She looked up at Jasper, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "David signed the contract. He thought he was securing our future. But two weeks after he died, the lawyers came. They told me the contract didn't just give them publishing rights—it surrendered every single line of music David had ever written, present and future, for a flat fee. They seized his manuscripts. They seized his instruments. They even took his personal notebooks."
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"And the money?" Jasper asked.
"The fifty thousand dollars was used by the holding company to pay off 'administrative and legal expenses' they claimed David owed them. We didn't receive a single penny."
