Chapter 16 - The Empty Notebook

My mother was unharmed. That was the first thing Dr. Park told me, and for a moment it was the only thing I could understand.

A narrow service balcony ran below the bedroom window. The police found fresh marks on the railing and a torn piece of dark cloth caught in the latch.

Someone had entered while we were celebrating Lucy's rescue.

"They took the notebook," Elena said. "Not the medicine, not the jewelry. Just what she wrote."

I knelt beside my mother's chair.

"Did you see the person?"

She shook her head.

"Did they hurt you?"

Another shake. Then she caught my hand and traced the same crooked V on my palm.

"The chest," I said.

Her grip tightened.

"Whatever's in it, Victor still hasn't found it."

Bell arrived with the crime-scene team. She listened to us, photographed the damage, and made arrangements for Teresa to move to a protected medical residence. Elena volunteered to stay as a companion, subject to the facility's rules.

"I should be the one going with her," I said.

"Then visit her," Elena replied. "Show up without needing a camera."

I helped my mother into her coat. She stared at me for a long time, then touched my cheek. It felt less like forgiveness than an invitation to earn it.

Before the ambulance left, she whispered a word.

"Lining."

Elena leaned closer. "The chest lining?"

Teresa nodded.

I told Bell. Her team already had a warrant request underway for Victor's storage property and the vehicles used in Lucy's abduction.

The next morning, Bell called me to an evidence room. Camille's sewing chest sat on a steel table, one yellow bird missing from its painted row.

"Recovered from a storage unit leased through Victor's company," she said. "You can tell us where to look, but you can't handle it."

I showed the technician the brass plate behind the lower drawer. She lifted it carefully, then peeled back a strip of old blue lining.

Underneath was a narrow, oilcloth-wrapped book, smaller than a paperback.

Bell opened it in front of a camera.

The first page bore two names in my mother's handwriting: DOMINIC CALDERONE and VICTOR KESSLER.

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Beside them was an amount followed by one chilling instruction.

BEFORE THE NIGHT SHIFT LEAVES.