Chapter 2 - The Notebook in the Kitchen
Lena Callahan was waiting in the kitchen when they got home. She stood beside the sink with her arms crossed, still wearing the navy blouse from the municipal records office. Her dark hair had come loose from its clip, and the worry in her eyes made Vincent feel older than the number on his driver’s license.
“What happened?” she asked.
Noah looked at Vincent.
“He fell,” Vincent said.
Lena’s eyes narrowed. “Noah?”
“Three boys pushed him.”
“And you were there?”
“I was across the street.”
“Across the street.”
The words landed harder than an accusation. Vincent placed the violin case on the table. The cracked instrument inside seemed to accuse him too.
“I stepped in,” he said.
“After he was on the ground.”
Noah’s face tightened. “Mom.”
Lena knelt in front of him. “I’m not mad at you, baby.”
“Granddad told me fear was a habit.”
“Your granddad has told you a lot of things.”
Vincent opened his mouth, then closed it. Lena had been listening to those things for twenty-nine years, most of them delivered by a man who believed a firm voice could repair any problem.
While Lena cleaned the cut on Noah’s lip, Vincent opened the notebook on the kitchen table. Noah watched him carefully.
“You made all these marks?” Vincent asked.
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Sometimes Keon told me things.”
Lena stopped dabbing Noah’s mouth. “Keon?”
“One of the boys,” Vincent said.
Noah shook his head. “He doesn’t want to hurt people. He just goes with Darius.”
“You’ve been talking to them?” Lena asked.
“Not like friends.”
“Then what?”
Noah pointed to a page. “They go to the places with blue birds.”
The marks were small, neat, and identical: a blue bird with one wing raised. Beside several addresses, Noah had written times. 4:10. 6:45. 11:20.
Vincent felt something cold move through him.
“What do the blue birds mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long have you been doing this?” Lena asked.
Noah lowered his eyes. “A few weeks.”
“A few weeks?”
“I wanted to know where they went.”
Vincent turned to the page with Bellwether Street. Around 17, Noah had drawn three arrows pointing toward the river and written: Darius, gray truck, after dark.
The Blue Heron Club had been closed for fifteen years. The windows were painted black. The sign hung crooked above the entrance, one blue neon bird still glowing faintly whenever the power flickered through the old building.
Vincent had played there in the nineties, back when the neighborhood smelled like coffee and rain instead of hot asphalt. Caleb had loved the place. He had taken photographs behind the stage, in the narrow hallway, and from the roof where the river looked like a strip of hammered silver.
Caleb had been twenty-nine when he died.
Lena saw Vincent’s expression. “Why are you looking at that address like it bit you?”
“I know the building.”
“Everybody knows the building.”
“Not like I do.”
Before Lena could ask more, someone knocked on the back door.
Noah flinched.
Vincent moved first. He picked up the saxophone from beside the chair and walked through the dining room. Lena pulled Noah behind her.
“Who is it?” Vincent called.
No answer.
The knob turned once.
Vincent stepped closer. “I said who is it?”
Footsteps scraped across the porch. Then the back gate creaked.
Lena unlocked the door and opened it a fraction. Nobody stood outside. On the step lay a torn piece of paper folded around a brass key.
Vincent picked up the paper.
The words were printed in block letters.
STOP COUNTING WHAT DOESN’T BELONG TO YOU.
Noah pressed closer to Lena.
“Call the police,” she said.
Vincent examined the key. A small metal tag hung from it. 17B.
“What does that mean?” Lena asked.
Vincent looked toward the darkening yard. “It means somebody knows about the notebook.”
The police came, took photographs, and asked whether Vincent had enemies. The young officer smiled when Vincent mentioned the boys.
“Kids do stupid things,” the officer said. “Probably trying to scare you.”
“They left a key to an abandoned building,” Vincent replied.
“Then don’t go inside.”
After the officers left, Lena stood in the doorway of Noah’s room while he slept. She spoke so softly that Vincent almost missed it.
“Dad, what happened at the Blue Heron?”
Vincent held the brass key in his palm.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“That answer has never once made me feel better.”
He looked at his daughter and saw Caleb in the shape of her mouth. “Your brother was taking pictures there before he died.”
“I know that.”
“There was more to it.”
“What more?”
Vincent glanced toward Noah’s bed. “I’m not sure yet.”
Outside, an engine started at the curb. Vincent looked through the window and saw the same black SUV from the festival idling beneath the streetlamp.
The driver did not turn on the headlights.
May you like
When Vincent looked down at the key again, he noticed a thin strip of dried blue paint along its teeth.
The same blue as the birds in Noah’s notebook.
