Chapter 13 - The Boy Who Counted
Leo had always counted when he was afraid.
He counted stairs, fence posts, the seconds between thunder and lightning. Sara had noticed it first and turned it into a game. Whenever Leo felt overwhelmed, she told him to find five things that were blue, four things that were square, three things that made noise, two things that smelled familiar, and one person who would stay.
After Sara died, Mark had forgotten the game. Leo had not.
At Nina’s house, he counted the silver lines on the map while the adults argued in the kitchen.
“The signal change proves intent,” Mark said. “It doesn’t prove Vale ordered the crash.”
“Evan’s locker proves coordination,” Ruiz replied.
“It proves Evan coordinated.”
“And Evan worked for Vale.”
“You don’t know that.”
“The contract records show Argus paid him through a consulting company.”
Mark heard Nina say, “Then why are they still holding the council meeting?”
“Because the mayor may not know what she’s approving,” Ruiz said. “Or because she does.”
Leo counted five blue things: his notebook, the bowl, a blanket, the kitchen tile, and the vein in Mark’s hand.
He counted four squares: the window, the outlet, the photo frame, the tablet.
Three sounds: the refrigerator, Nina’s voice, a car passing outside.
Two familiar smells: cinnamon and Mark’s jacket.
One person who would stay: his father.
It helped until a dark SUV slowed outside.
Leo stood before he meant to. Mark saw him through the kitchen doorway and immediately ended the conversation.
“Everyone downstairs,” Mark said.
Nina moved toward the blinds. Ruiz drew her weapon.
The SUV continued past the house.
“Plate?” Ruiz asked.
“I couldn’t see it.”
Leo did not tell them that he had seen the driver. It was a woman with pale hair and a silver earring shaped like a triangle. He had seen the same earring beside the white van on Calvin’s video. He remembered because the woman had looked directly at him before Todd’s car turned.
That night, Leo woke from a dream of the storm drain. In the dream, the drain opened like a mouth and swallowed the road. He heard a woman say, “You still have something that belongs to us.”
He sat up and saw a small red light blinking beneath the guest-room door.
Leo counted to five.
Then he opened the door.
The light came from a device attached beneath the hallway table. It was no larger than a coin and had been taped to the underside. Leo recognized it from Mark’s work bag. It was an emergency beacon, but its signal pulsed in a pattern.
Three short flashes. Two long. Three short.
Leo remembered the bicycle light making the same sound after the crash.
He did not touch it. He went to wake Mark.
By morning, the forensic team had taken the device. Imani Brooks examined it and found that it had been transmitting the apartment’s audio to a receiver near the river.
“Can you identify the receiver?” Mark asked.
“I can identify the network.”
“Argus?”
“No. Municipal emergency services.”
Mark felt cold. “Someone inside dispatch planted it.”
Imani turned the device over. “There’s a serial number.”
Mark recognized the prefix. It belonged to Meridian’s old emergency beacon inventory, a batch retired after a software failure.
“Who signed these out?”
“The records are incomplete.”
“Of course they are.”
Leo watched from the hall. “The pattern was the same as my bike light.”
Imani looked at him. “You’re sure?”
“Three short, two long, three short.”
Mark crouched beside him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you would say I was imagining it.”
The words struck harder than any accusation.
“I should have asked what you noticed,” Mark said.
Leo nodded, but he did not smile.
Later, while Mark reviewed the signal pattern, Leo opened Sara’s box again. Beneath the child’s road drawing was a second sheet of paper that had stuck to the cardboard lining. He peeled it free and found a series of numbers matching the pulses from the beacon.
3-2-3.
Underneath, Sara had written, “A signal is a message only if someone is listening.”
Leo carried the paper to Mark.
Mark read it, then looked toward the river.
“Mom knew,” Leo said.
“She knew someone was listening.”
“Did she know they would come after me?”
Mark pulled him close. “No. But she knew the truth could frighten people who wanted it hidden.”
“I’m frightened.”
“So am I.”
“You’re not supposed to say that.”
“I’m your father, not a wall. I can be afraid and still stay.”
May you like
Leo held him tighter.
Outside, a siren began and then cut off abruptly.
