The first time Hazel Delaney heard herself sing in front of another human being, it was in the basement of Longworth Academy, and she was nineteen years old, and the piano was out of tune, and the gir
Hazel stopped. "Was it bad?" Roxy opened one eye. "You sounded like your mother." That should have been an insult. Coming from Roxy, it was the highest compliment Hazel had ever received. Her mother had been Billie Delaney—Billie Duval, born in Harlem, raised on jazz and cigarette smoke and the kind of music that didn't care whether you were good, only whether you were honest. Billie had died...
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