The beautiful piano sitting in the corner of Jill King’s apartment begs to be played. For over a year, it has sat untouched, ever since a terrible accident shattered Jill’s ambition of becoming a concert pianist. The ragged scar on her left hand is a cruel and constant reminder of the death of her dream.But another dream is about to come to life―an unexpected, horrifying dream that will present Jill with a responsibility she never wanted. And choices she never wanted to make. Hundreds of lives depend on Jill’s willingness to warn her small, oceanside town in Nova Scotia of a nameless, looming disaster. But doing so could cost Jill her reputation, jeopardize the political career of the man she loves, and ruin their plans for a future together.The fate of an entire community hangs in the balance as Jill wrestles with the cost of heeding one still, small voice. Lori Copeland is a bestselling author whose books includde Now and Always, Simple Gifts, Unwrapping Christmas, and Monday Morning Faith, which was a finalist for the 2007 Christy Awards. Lori was inducted into the Springfield Writers Hall of Fame in 2000 and lives in the beautiful Ozarks with her husband and family. Virginia Smith is the author of more than a dozen Christian novels. Her books have been named finalists in the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence in Mystery/Suspense, the American Christian Fiction Writer's Book of the Year Award, and ACFW's Carol Award. When she isn't writing or speaking, Ginny and her husband, Ted, enjoy exploring the extremes of nature. They live in Salt Lake City, UT. Lost Melody A Novel By Lori Copeland Virginia Smith Zondervan Copyright © 2011 Copeland Inc. All right reserved. ISBN: 978-0-310-28986-9 Chapter One December 8 "Taxi, ma'am?" Jill paused on the sidewalk just outside her hotel. Taxi or subway? A taxi would get her to Seventh Avenue early, with plenty of time to sign in and get her bearings before the workshop began. It would probably cost a ton, though. Everything in New York cost five times more than she'd budgeted for this trip. Besides, her legs itched for a walk. She needed to work off some of the excited energy that had kept her up most of the night. Carnegie Hall, here I come! She fastened the top button of her coat beneath her chin and smiled at the hotel doorman. "No, thank you. They told me at the front desk there's a subway station nearby." The man pointed a gloved hand down the street. "Just around that corner. Can't miss it." Jill hitched the leather strap of her music portfolio higher on her shoulder and took off at a brisk pace over concrete wet with melted snow. Clouds the color of the fat pigeons she'd seen strutting through Central Park yesterday threatened to gift the city with more snow before the morning ended. Of course she'd run out of her room without her hat. She shot an I-dare-you-to-snow-on-my-parade grin toward the sky. Steam rose in thick ribbons from gutters to pollute her airspace with unpleasant underground odors, which she ignored. Yellow flashed in the corner of her eye and a taxicab sped past, spraying the sidewalk with dirty slush. A few heavy drops hit her left pant leg. She gasped and slid to a stop to examine the damage. Not bad, thank goodness. When she got to the Institute she'd run a wet paper towel over the black fabric, and they'd be good as new. A completely un-Jill-like giggle tickled in her throat. Nothing could dampen her spirits today. When she rounded the building on the corner, she spied the subway entrance halfway down the block. A handful of people, all of them bundled against the frigid weather, descended the concrete stairs. A couple of fat snowflakes floated in the air before her eyes and landed on her coat sleeve, instantly sucked into nonexistence by thirsty wool. Jill increased her pace, eager to get below ground before the snow began in earnest. Down below, she purchased a MetroCard from an automated ticket machine and approached the cage-like turnstile behind a tall man in an overcoat. When she attempted to insert the card into the slot, the portfolio slid off her shoulder with a jerk and her fingers fumbled. The card slipped out of her grasp, danced like a jitterbug contestant on a phantom gust of air, and landed on the dirty floor inside the turnstile. Jill gasped. "My card!" The tall man turned and appraised her predicament in a second. "Allow me." He retrieved the card and handed it across the thick metal bar with the courtly flourish of a gentleman returning a lady's handkerchief. Kind, dark eyes caught Jill's and sparked with . . . something. She found herself smiling, drawn by his charming, old-fashioned courtesy. "Thank you." She took the card and inserted it into the slot. Who said New Yorkers weren't friendly? The turnstile rotated, allowing her entry. "For a second I thought I might have to crawl under." He dipped his head in a hint of a bow. "My pleasure to come to the aid of a bea