The room was dark, lit only by the glooming full moon outside; the light striking blue against the grand piano’s reflective-black surface, and I saw her sitting down by herself, in an extravagant but respectful black dress. Her name was Helen Rou, a beautiful young woman she was, talented, intelligent who recently married a rich and intelligent man. She sat there, in the moonlight playing a beautiful tune; her eyes were closed, her fingers gently touching, almost caressing the keys, playing Chopin's Nocturne No. 2. Such a beautiful, melancholy piece.
I approached her slowly, listening carefully to each note, until finally I was able to stand beside her, feeling the warmth of her aura, as her gentle hands crafted such tender, passionate music. She then saw me and stopped.
‘Mr. Boyle,’ she said, first startled, and then relieved.
‘I apologise, Miss Rou, I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ I said, with an intended, political smile. ‘May I sit down?’ I asked her, and she gave me a nod and she shifted to allow more room on the seat. Miss Rou, or Helen, as she liked me to call her, breathed and prepared to play again, but then hesitated and turned to me.
‘There are some things I hoped I could talk to you about,’ she said. She didn’t look at me.
‘Anything, Miss Rou,’ I said, knowing already where the conversation would lead.
‘I tried to ask you before, but…’ she trembled.
‘Please, take your time,’ I said, patiently.
‘You kill people, don’t you?’ she suddenly asked. I intentionally held a moment of silence.
‘I work for your fiancé and I do what he asks me,’ I said bluntly, but not rudely. She was a sensitive soul, and I was ordered to handle her gently.
‘What if someone else asks you to do something?’ Miss Rou asked.
‘You wish for a favour?’ I was also ordered to be in her service, as well, and she knew. There was a brief time of silence as she parted her lips, but the words were a challenge to vocalise. She trembled and forced out the words,
‘I want you to kill my fiancé.’

I sat there, looking into her eyes, not answering, not reacting; rather holding a motionless gaze. She looked back at me, her eyes revealed an achingly tragic story. She had spent hours by herself, with decisions and indecisions, recalling the life she dreamed and lamenting the nightmare she received. She loved her fiancé, though he was a ruthless man, but she knew she couldn’t live this life, she couldn’t continue. He’d threatened to kill her more than once, and she knew this was the only way...
‘I have cash,’ she said. ‘Ninety thousand in my savings, I can give you at least half –and I have some jewellery worth a few thousand dollars.’
I looked at her, reading her. Her body lay across the border between desperation and despair, and she came to me as a final choice, from a position where she knew could only lead to horror.
‘Keep your jewellery,’ I said to her. ‘I’ll do it for fifty thousand and if you could tell me, why it is you would like Mr. Lawler dead.’ She took another breath.
‘He changed,’ she said, simply. ‘I had met him before he began work for this company, before he killed people for no reasons, before… when he cared about me…’
I sat there, seeing a tear form in her left eye. I traced it with my eyes, followed it as it crawled down her cheek, and wiped it with her hand.
‘He does appreciate you, Miss Rou,’ I told her.
‘He must have blinded you too,’ she said, almost in a mood to joke. I looked at her staring into the night sky outside. ‘All he cares about now is his money and his “goods.” I don’t even exist in his life, yet he glorifies me, like I’m a trophy, and he’s unwilling to let go.’ I sat there, turning to the window, watching the pale moon among the empty city-night sky.
‘I believe you were playing, before I had interrupted, Chopin's Nocturne No. 2, in E flat major?’ I said, changing the subject, for her comfort. ‘Could you please, if you may, continue?’
She smiled and corrected her posture and closed her eyes. Breathing deeply, her hands started moving, and like magic, a beautiful tune filled the air.
‘So I suppose,’ I began again, ‘That there is someone else?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, continuing with the piano.
‘To escape this world with you?’
‘I was hoping you could help me with that, give me a new ID, a new place to live?’
‘I can arrange that, but I would need an extra ten thousand dollars.’ She nodded. After a moment of listening to the fine notes of her grand piano, I told her, ‘This is a beautiful piece.’
‘It was, my father’s favourite, and mine, too.’ She played on. ‘I barely have to think anymore, I just let my fingers freely and they do all the work.’
‘It is my favourite too,’ and I closed my eyes and felt the music in my skin, absorbing, surrendering myself to the andante rhythm, letting the tune suspend my mind, and delicately flow into the softest depths in my breast. The piece reached its climax and then slowly and gently, concluded; the last note echoing into the unlit apartment. The room fell into a solemn silence.
Slowly, I opened my eyes and then I whispered to her, ‘there is one more thing I must ask you. Was there anyone else that knows about your plot?’
‘No one,’ she said.
I nodded, and said, one last time, ‘that was beautiful.’ She smiled again, and her spirits settled. I smiled back and turned my head and looked out, again, at moonlit sky and she too turned, and we took a moment to share the view. The glow of the moon reflected the light skin of her hands, and I glanced at her, and reached over. And then, as we sat and watched the sky together, I slowly retrieved from my coat a small, silver knife, and with speed and precision, I slit her throat. I cleaned the blade with a handkerchief from my right pocket, and replaced the weapon in my coat. I looked at her – it was a painless death. I left her there, her eyes closed, her face against the polished black surface of the grand piano, and her arms stretched wide, embracing the musical instrument. I left her.

Without turning back I slowly paced over to the front door of the apartment, closing the door as I walked out. I never looked back. I went down three stories and on my arrival, by the elevator door, a man in a formal suit similar to mine had waited there, pacing, counting his steps – a number which I imagine, had exceeded a million. He stopped abruptly at my arrival.
‘So what happened?’ he asked.
I didn’t answer; I just invited him in with me. I pressed the button to the elevator and with a pinging sound, the elevator made its voyage downwards. We stood in the elevator awhile as we waited for it to reach the ground floor. There was first silence.
‘So, what happened?’
I waited for the elevator pass two floors first.
‘She wanted you dead, Mr. Lawler.’
He took a sigh.
‘You killed her?’
‘Yes. You may want to send someone to clean it up. I had also recordered our conversation.’ I handed him a tape recorder and a player. ‘You may want to destroy this after you hear it, it could be used as criminal evidence against you, Mr. Lawler.’
He stood there sweating, keeping a strong and confident face. He had disguised his grief exceptionally well.
‘Thank you Boyle,’ he said, in a professional tone. But that wasn’t my real name. The elevator soon stopped and I stepped out, leaving Mr. Lawler behind. I didn’t look back as the elevator closed. But I know he had broken down into tears inside that elevator, listening to Chopin's Nocturne No. 2 being played on the tape recorder. That beautiful, melancholy tune.

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