Chapter 4

I sat in the quiet corner of a café three blocks from the gallery, my fingers tracing the rim of a cooling latte. The crack in my Stradivarius haunted me—not just the physical damage, but what it represented. My phone lay face-up on the table, displaying Sir Alistair Finch's contact information. I'd been staring at it for twenty minutes, gathering courage.

When it finally rang, his name flashing across the screen, my heart leapt to my throat.

"Ms. Harper," Sir Alistair's crisp British accent filled my ear. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"Not at all," I managed, stepping…