Chapter 2

The security captain's expression shifted, and his grip on my shoulder loosened.

I seized the chance, broke free, shoved past the crowd, and made a run for the emergency exit.

"Stop," the security captain yelled after me.

I dashed into the stairwell, tore off my heels, and sprinted barefoot. Footsteps thundered behind me, relentless.

I burst out the back door, cold wind smacking my face. I ducked into a garbage-filled alley and curled up in the darkest corner.

Flashlights flickered at the mouth of the alley.

"Split up. She can't have gotten far," the security captain shouted.

The footsteps faded away. Slumped on the ground, I gulped air and tried to speak. My voice was rough and scratchy.

That voice rang out in my head again.

"The price is working. Your voice will keep getting rough, but anyone who lies will be exposed. Next time you want to speak the truth, don't forget. I'm here," the System said.

*****

Footsteps and beams of flashlight cut through the end of the alley.

I tugged my hat lower, turned, and melted into the deeper night.

I changed my phone and number, then camped out in the ATM lobby until morning.

Once I got onto public Wi-Fi, the first thing I did was log into an old cloud account I hadn't touched in ages.

Thanks to my habit of backing up everything three years ago, all my files were safe in my personal cloud drive.

I downloaded, sorted, and took screenshots. The evidence trail was getting clearer.

There was the original dry audio of Shimmer & Fade, the released version, photos of my creative drafts, and scans of the contract and addendums, which clearly stated the company couldn't use my voice after the contract expired.

How was I supposed to deal with the assistant's death?

Then I remembered someone, Vincent Turner. He was thirty-eight, a top-tier audio engineer and a voiceprint expert.

Ten years ago, he got blacklisted after publicly calling out a superstar for lip-syncing. Since then, he'd only taken on private voiceprint jobs, staying out of the spotlight.

I'd met him at a lecture.

I sent him an encrypted email, attaching two audio files, my raw vocal and Viviana's official release.

I texted: [Mr. Turner, sorry for the sudden message. Could you help me run a professional comparison? I'm willing to pay.]

Three hours later, I got a reply.

[No need to pay. Tomorrow at 2 PM, meet me in a private room on the second floor of Vintage Cafe. Bring the original files.]

Vintage Cafe was ancient, and every step on the wooden stairs made them creak and groan.

As I opened the door to the private room, Vincent was already waiting. He wore a gray jacket, his laptop set up in front of him.

"Take a seat," Vincent said, pointing to the chair opposite. "I've listened to the two audio files you sent me for Shimmer & Fade."

"So, what's the verdict?" I asked.

He slid the laptop over, showing two side-by-side soundwave graphs. "This is the first line from your raw audio. And this is the same line from Viviana's official release. See here, "

He zoomed in on the waveform. "That slight tremor is a natural fluctuation caused by your vocal cords not fully recovering after your cold. In her version, they smoothed it out, but the overall shape of the waveform is identical.

"And look at the breathing points, the length of the breaths. This isn't an imitation. It's a straight-up copy and paste."

"Can you put together a report?"

"I can," Vincent replied, closing his laptop and meeting my eyes. "But Winnie, the report can only show she copied your voice and your song. The assistant's case is a whole other matter."

"I know," I said, pulling out my phone and queuing up the video. "I need to prove it's a fake."

Vincent took my phone and watched the clip for a few seconds. "Do you have the original file?"

"No, this is the one that's all over the internet."

"That's a problem. If I could get my hands on the raw, uncompressed file, I could pick out the edits. But after all those uploads and re-encodings, the fine details are wiped out."

Just then, my phone buzzed. I checked the screen and blurted out, [Nova Lux released a statement. They're blaming the assistant's fall on personal reasons, and they're calling the audio online a maliciously edited fake.]

Vincent let out a cold laugh. "They sure don't waste any time."

"Mr. Turner," I looked up at him. "Why are you helping me? You know what this means."

He took a slow sip of coffee and said, "Ten years ago, when I exposed that lip-syncing scandal, everyone warned me not to cross the big shots. But my bottom line as a pro is telling the truth.

"After that, they shut every door on me, my wife left, and I moved here with my daughter."

He paused. "But I never regretted it. Because real is real."

I looked into his eyes, and all I saw was unwavering determination.

*****

After that, I hid out in the temporary place Vincent arranged for me.

Vincent put together a full voiceprint report, marking over twenty points of similarity that couldn't be explained away as a coincidence.

"This is enough to win a civil case," he said. "But only if you can stand before the judge."

He was right. I was still a murder suspect, and the police were still after me. Nova Lux's statement called the audio a malicious edit and put all the blame on me.

I lay on the bed, feeling low, and couldn't help thinking about the one place that always brought me comfort, Silent Harbor School. For the past three years, I'd been volunteering there every week.

At first light, I headed into Silent Harbor School. The old building's paint was peeling, and I made my way to the easternmost classroom, pushing open the door.

The sign language teacher spotted me and signed with a smile, "Morning, Ms. Brown."

"Morning," I signed back.

The kids greeted me with sparkling eyes and hands waving in animated gestures.

I smiled and sat down next to Amy White. She was sixteen, born with severe hearing loss.

Today's class was about experiencing rhythm.

The speakers on the wooden table started pumping out a beat, making the whole table buzz. The kids all reached out and pressed their hands against the wood.

Amy closed her eyes, feeling the vibrations ripple through her palm. Her lashes fluttered, and a quiet smile tugged at her lips. Then she grabbed a red pen and drew lines on her paper that rose and fell with the beat of the drums.

I pulled out my phone, found Viviana's live version of Shimmer & Fade, cranked the volume up, and placed it on the table. The song poured out.

Amy pressed her hand back to the tabletop. Three seconds later, she opened her eyes, picked up a blue pen, and drew on another sheet of paper.

When she finished, she slid both sheets over to me. The red lines were warm and smooth, while the blue ones were cold and sharp, with sudden breaks.

She looked up at me with clear eyes, tapped the red lines, and signed to me, "Ms. Brown, this one feels warm."

Then she tapped the blue lines and signed, "That one is cold and fragmented."

I kept Amy's drawings in my hands all day, holding them tight like they were my lifeline.

The truth this deaf girl felt with her palms was clearer than any voiceprint report, no fancy tech, honesty.

*****

At eight o'clock that night, I was hunkered down in my temporary hideout, curtains drawn tight.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed. Bella from Silent Harbor School was calling, video, not text.

I froze. Bella always stuck to texts, never video calls.

Five seconds passed with my finger hovering over the answer button, then I tapped it.

It wasn't Bella. Instead, a woman in her thirties with neatly styled curls and a gentle smile appeared on the screen.

She was sitting in a modest living room, a faded calendar hanging on the wall.

I recognized it. It was Amy's place. Her parents worked down south, so she lived with her grandma, who was hard of hearing.

The woman had her arm around Amy's shoulders. Amy was in her school uniform, sitting up straight, her face pale, her eyes locked onto the camera.

Next to the woman sat a man in glasses, wearing a gray jacket, his head bowed as he flipped through a battered photo album.

"Hello, Ms. Brown," the woman said. "I'm Kaylee Finch from the Foundation for Accessibility & Inclusion. And this is John Merchant, our department head."

The man looked up, nodded at me, then went right back to flipping through the album.

I stayed silent.

"We dropped by for a home visit and saw firsthand how much you care about Amy," Kaylee said, gently running her fingers through Amy's hair. Amy stiffened, her shoulders tight.

"Our foundation has a new initiative. We're looking to sponsor hearing-impaired kids with artistic talent, sending them to the capital for a full hearing rehab assessment and some top-notch art training."

She leaned closer, her face looming large on the screen. "Amy's got real talent. But for the program, we need your recommendation. Ms. Brown, could we talk face-to-face for a bit?"

I stared into her eyes. Her smile never reached them; they were cold and empty.

I said, "I can't right now. I can write up my evaluation for you instead."

"Written feedback isn't really formal, is it?" Kaylee said, shaking her head. "I heard you've been digging into some music files lately?"

My hand instinctively curled into a fist.