20 April 1912

Walter Harrigan’s legs wobbled as he walked down the gangplank at Pier 60, rucksack slung over the shoulder of his topcoat, violin case in hand. Though the RMS Titanic was safely moored in the dock, he still felt its motion, his body confused by the pull of his inner ear.

He breathed in the unique smell of America – the salty air of the Hudson, cherry blossoms blooming along the shoreline, intermingled with rotting rubbish and the odor of steerage passengers who milled about on the dock.

“Three days late. Fastest ship in the world, aye?” A grimy dockhand tugged at a rope securing the gangplank to the pier.

Walter nodded. “Better three days late than three days dead. We nearly clipped an iceberg up north.”

“Your Cap’n steered that ship with angels at the helm.” The dockhand nodded toward the ship’s main deck; Captain Smith stood tall and stoic, overlooking the cityscape.

The dockhand wiped his hands on his trousers. He gestured toward Walter’s violin case. “You one of those great musicians folks keep talking about?”

“Something like that.”

He grinned at Walter through broken, blackened teeth. “Then I’ll be seeing you in a fortnight. Just got a job swabbing the decks on the return to Liverpool.”

Walter straightened. He had no intention of ever returning to England.

15 May 1912

Kenneth Campbell was a name Walter would never forget, and he found the man sitting at the edge of a bar, the stale, sticky air of the pub heavy against his crisp tuxedo. Campbell’s long fingers – the fingers of a cellist – caressed a sweating mug of Guinness. His stature belied the relaxed confidence of one better than those around him; his expensive attire a shimmer of moonlight over a muted sea of filth-covered workingmen. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a long, gentlemanly drink, then dabbed the foam from his moustache with a linen napkin.

It hadn’t been difficult for Walter to find Campbell. Violin in tow, Walter appeared to be just another musician seeking to breathe life into the Great White Way. He knew just the right questions to ask, leading him to this pub in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen. It was a pity; Broadway might have been enjoyable had Walter not ventured to New York for other reasons. It had been as easy to track Campbell in America as it had been in England, this redheaded Scotsman who favored his pint as much as he did his Mozart – perhaps even as much as he favored Walter’s sweetheart, Victoria Leighton.

Walter removed his hat and overcoat and strode toward the empty seat next to him. He sat, gesturing toward the barkeep.

“A pint.”

The bartender slid a mug toward Walter; he took a bold sip before resting it back on the bar. He glanced toward Campbell, who continued to stare ahead, lost in his own reverie.

“Square peg too, eh?”

Campbell turned, brow furrowed.

“Excuse me?”

“Square peg, round hole. Don’t exactly fit with this crowd.”

Campbell grinned. “Cheapest pub near the theatre,” he said. “And on a musician’s salary….”

Walter nodded, forcing a smile.

“Besides,” Campbell continued. “I need to save up every bloody cent. Got a wee babe on the way.”

Walter’s breath caught as he fought the heat building in his body. “I see.” He took another sip and swallowed hard to calm his roiling stomach. “Are you happy about it?”

“Wouldn’t you be happy if you’d just fathered a child with the most beautiful girl in the world?” Campbell winked. “Sure, I’m glad to be a papa. But the path to get there? Like heaven.”

Chortling, the man slapped Walter on the back.

Jaw set, Walter dropped his eyes. He swirled his glass, the beer within rising and falling like an angry sea.

“So enough about me. What brings you to these parts? Bring your shovel to get your share of gold in the streets?”

Walter looked up. He took in the man’s slick hair, his pockmarked skin, green eyes that twinkled under the spell of Guinness in the dim pub lighting. He hated Campbell, now scores more than the first time he saw him with Victoria that night in Liverpool. The night she left Walter behind.

“Good lad, I asked you a question.”

Walter surrendered to the sneer that curled from his lips.

“I’ve got some unfinished business.”

16 May 1912

Walter stood on the street corner; his face warm under the spring sun. Violin at his chin, he found comfort in the long, melancholic notes he drew with his bow. “Nearer My God to Thee” seemed appropriate. City folk stopped intermittently to watch him play, oblivious to the scene unfolding down the street outside a quiet brownstone, where paddy wagons blocked the road and policemen stood, waiting.

As the last sweet notes drifted into the morning air, a team of medics carried a sheet-covered body down the brownstone’s stairs. Though he couldn’t see it, Walter envisioned the spot on the fabric where the blood seeped from Victoria’s chest, from the center of the heart that had broken his. He frowned, considering the two heartbeats silenced in the twilight.

He hadn’t intended to harm his Victoria. But he couldn’t raise Campbell’s baby; he’d always see that man’s eyes, every time he looked upon the redheaded child that was not his own.

Walter did enjoy killing Campbell, the man who’d taken his beloved across the sea. How he’d cackled in a drunken stupor, flinging the body into the river. Walter swore he heard the man singing about lust and gold-paved streets as the water overtook him.

Amid the murmuring crowd, Walter bent down and placed his violin back in its case.

“Whatcha doin’ here, pal?”

He looked up. A red-faced detective glowered at him, tapping a nightstick into his palm.

Walter secured the clasps and stood. He nodded; his expression grim.

“Music brings such comfort in times of tragedy.”