Chapter 2 - The Notebook That Was Never Supposed to Survive
At 9:17 that night, Eleanor Voss unlocked the back door of her father's old studio and found Roman Calder standing beneath a flickering security light.
She stopped.
“You could have called.”
“I did.”
“My phone was off.”
“I noticed.”
Eleanor looked past him.
A black SUV was parked across the street.
Marcus Reed sat behind the wheel.
There were no other visible guards.
“You came with one driver?”
“Marcus doesn't like being called a driver.”
“Does Marcus know you're walking into a building where someone may have been searching for evidence?”
“Yes.”
“And he approved?”
Roman glanced toward the SUV.
“Not enthusiastically.”
Despite herself, Eleanor smiled.
It was the first time Roman had seen her smile without suspicion.
He noticed the difference immediately.
Then the siren pierced the moment.
A violent, needle-thin shriek flashed through his skull.
His jaw tightened.
Eleanor noticed.
“Is it worse tonight?”
Roman disliked the question.
Not because it was intrusive.
Because she asked without pity.
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Come inside. It's cold.”
The studio occupied the ground floor of a narrow brick building near Ashport's old commercial district.
The windows were tall and dusty.
Colored glass hung from wooden racks.
Unfinished panels leaned against walls painted a fading blue.
An old radio sat on a shelf beside a stack of books.
The place smelled of cedar, solder, coffee, and rain-damp stone.
Roman had walked through mansions worth fifty million dollars.
He had owned offices designed by architects whose fees could finance small hospitals.
Yet something about Eleanor's studio made him feel like a trespasser.
Perhaps because nothing inside had been purchased to impress anyone.
Everything existed because someone needed it.
Or loved it.
Eleanor turned on a work lamp.
“Coffee?”
“No.”
“Tea?”
“No.”
“Then you're going to stand there being intimidating while I search through boxes?”
Roman removed his overcoat.
“That's usually how my evenings go.”
She almost laughed again.
“I'm sure.”
She led him toward an old oak cabinet.
Its drawers were marked with handwritten labels.
BLUE GLASS.
LEAD CAME.
RESTORATION RECORDS.
PRIVATE.
Eleanor opened the bottom drawer.
Inside lay a brown leather notebook wrapped in a clean linen cloth.
She placed it on the table.
Roman recognized the handwriting immediately.
Samuel Voss had written the same way he worked.
Small.
Precise.
Almost architectural.
Eleanor opened to a page dated fourteen days before the bombing.
“Here.”
Roman leaned closer.
A drawing occupied most of the page.
It showed the eastern section of the rose window.
Near the top, Samuel had drawn a small symbol.
A cross inside a circle.
Beneath it were three words.
Original placement altered.
Roman frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“My father believed one panel had been removed and reinstalled incorrectly. He thought someone had done it while the work area was unoccupied.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“He didn't know. But look at the date.”
Roman read it.
October 11.
The bombing happened October 25.
“Two weeks earlier.”
“Yes.”
She turned the page.
Another note.
October 14. Unauthorized request to remove eastern thirteenth petal. Declined pending written approval.
Then another.
October 18. Brass access plate near organ loft discovered unsecured. Reported to Father Brennan.
Roman's eyes stopped moving.
“Organ loft?”
Eleanor nodded.
“The cathedral has a narrow maintenance passage behind the organ. It connects to the eastern service corridor through an old stone stairwell.”
Roman looked up sharply.
“That corridor was sealed after the explosion.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Structural damage, according to the report.”
Roman stared at the notebook.
Father Brennan had summoned him specifically to discuss something happening at the harbor.
And now Samuel Voss's records showed unexplained access to a restricted passage days before the priest died.
“What else?”
Eleanor turned several pages.
Her hands became slower.
Roman saw the change.
“Here.”
A note was written in darker ink.
October 21. Father Brennan requested private meeting. Said financial records and restoration documents were connected. Refused to explain in writing.
Roman felt something tighten in his chest.
The twenty-first.
Four days before the bombing.
“Did your father attend that meeting?”
“No. He said Father Brennan canceled it at the last minute.”
“Why?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“He never knew.”
Roman studied the handwriting.
He remembered his own conversation with Father Brennan on the morning of October 25.
There are things happening at the harbor that you need to know.
Not the cathedral.
The harbor.
“What financial records?” Roman asked.
Eleanor hesitated.
“My father wasn't sure. He mentioned a charitable trust.”
Roman's blood turned cold.
“What trust?”
“The Saint Gabriel Harbor Relief Trust.”
He slowly straightened.
He knew the name.
Seven years earlier, the trust owned fourteen acres of waterfront property near Mercy Pier.
The land had originally been donated to the church for affordable housing, food distribution, and services for the families of dockworkers.
Roman's mother had volunteered there for twenty years.
After her death, he had made significant donations.
Then the trust became embroiled in a financial scandal.
Its board claimed the property was losing money.
The land was sold.
A private development company bought it.
Roman remembered the transaction because Vincent had encouraged him to invest.
He had refused.
The project eventually became Blackwater Terminal, a luxury commercial complex and private freight facility controlled by a network of holding companies.
Roman stared at Eleanor.
“What does the harbor trust have to do with a window?”
“I don't know.”
He didn't answer.
Because suddenly he remembered something else.
Father Brennan had opposed the sale.
Publicly.
Repeatedly.
The priest had accused unnamed investors of manipulating the charity's debts to force a transfer of ownership.
Three weeks later, he was dead.
Roman had always believed those events were connected.
But he had accepted the police investigation's conclusion that the bombing was an act of revenge by a disgruntled contractor.
He had never considered that Father Brennan might have been the actual target.
Or that he himself might have been invited to witness evidence someone needed destroyed.
Eleanor closed the notebook.
“My father believed he was being watched.”
Roman looked at her.
“Why didn't he go to the police?”
“He did.”
“What happened?”
“They interviewed him. Three days later, his restoration records were seized. Then someone leaked a story saying he had accepted money to bypass security procedures.”
Her voice tightened.
“He lost everything.”
Roman remained silent.
Eleanor ran her fingers over the notebook cover.
“My father wasn't a wealthy man. He owned this studio, a truck that barely started in winter, and a collection of terrible sweaters.”
She smiled faintly.
“He loved stained glass because he said broken things could still make beautiful light.”
Her smile disappeared.
“After the bombing, people stopped speaking to him. The church canceled his contracts. The newspapers called him careless. One television commentator said he had blood on his hands.”
Roman looked down.
He remembered the story.
He remembered seeing Samuel Voss interviewed outside the courthouse.
A thin man in a gray coat.
Hands trembling.
Repeatedly saying he had done nothing wrong.
Roman had barely listened.
At the time, his own world consisted of medication, specialists, and a sound that never stopped.
“I should have looked into it,” he said quietly.
Eleanor glanced up.
“What?”
“The accusations against your father.”
“Why would you?”
“Because it happened in my city. Because Father Brennan was my friend. Because I knew people who could have found answers.”
Eleanor studied him.
“Did you believe the newspapers?”
Roman considered lying.
He was good at it.
He had built an empire around knowing when truth was useful and when silence was safer.
But Eleanor was watching him with those unsettling gray-green eyes.
“Yes,” he admitted.
Her expression tightened.
“Then you're one more person who was wrong.”
He accepted the words without defending himself.
Outside, tires hissed against wet pavement.
Eleanor turned another page.
“This is the last entry.”
The handwriting was hurried.
October 24. They know about the eastern access. Michael has the papers. The missing petal is not missing. Do not let them close the eye.
Roman read the sentence twice.
“The eye?”
“My father never explained it.”
“Could he have meant the rose window?”
“Possibly.”
“Or the central circle?”
Eleanor looked at him.
Roman pointed toward the architectural drawing.
“A rose window has a center.”
“Yes.”
“What do conservators call it?”
“Usually the central oculus.”
Roman frowned.
“Oculus.”
“Latin for eye.”
They stared at each other.
Then Eleanor turned to the next page.
It was blank.
Except for a dark stain near the bottom.
Roman touched the paper.
“Blood?”
“Possibly.”
“Was your father injured?”
“Not during the bombing. He wasn't in the cathedral that afternoon.”
Roman looked up.
“The police report said he had been working there that morning.”
“He had. Father Brennan sent him home before noon.”
“Why?”
“He told my father the cathedral was no longer safe.”
Silence filled the studio.
Then Roman's phone vibrated.
Marcus.
Roman answered.
“What?”
“Boss, I checked the access logs.”
Roman glanced at Eleanor.
“Talk.”
“The credential used at Miss Voss's building belongs to Vincent, but the authorization was entered from a workstation inside the Calder Maritime headquarters.”
“When?”
“Yesterday, 4:42 p.m.”
“Who was in the building?”
“Vincent. Two accountants. Night security.”
Roman's expression didn't change.
But his fingers tightened around the phone.
“Where is Vincent now?”
“His house. At least according to the guard outside.”
Roman knew how unreliable that could be.
He had spent decades teaching men how to disappear.
“Keep watching him,” he said.
“Boss?”
“What?”
“There is something else.”
Roman waited.
“Someone requested access to the archived Saint Gabriel insurance files this morning.”
“Who?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Vincent again.”
Roman ended the call.
Eleanor watched him.
“You think your friend is involved.”
Roman looked toward the window.
“I think I'm finding out how many things I never questioned.”
Eleanor folded her arms.
“There's something I haven't told you.”
Roman turned back.
“My father left more than the notebook.”
“What?”
“A letter.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere nobody could steal it without destroying something he loved.”
Roman's eyes moved toward the racks of glass.
Eleanor shook her head.
“Not here.”
She walked toward the back of the studio.
Roman followed.
At the end of a narrow hallway stood a wooden door.
Eleanor unlocked it.
Inside was a room no larger than a closet.
A small square stained-glass panel hung on the far wall.
It depicted a woman holding a child beside a harbor at sunset.
The colors were extraordinary.
Deep gold.
Indigo.
Crimson.
Warm amber.
Roman recognized the scene.
Mercy Pier.
Before redevelopment.
“My father made this for my mother when they married,” Eleanor said.
Roman studied the panel.
“She must have loved it.”
“She did.”
“Where is she?”
Eleanor's voice softened.
“She died when I was nineteen.”
Roman glanced at her.
For a moment, the city outside seemed distant.
He understood what it meant to grow up around absence.
Eleanor reached behind the wooden frame.
There was a small brass latch.
She released it.
A hidden compartment opened.
Inside lay a sealed envelope.
Roman watched her lift it.
On the front, in Samuel Voss's handwriting, were six words.
For Eleanor. Only if I fail.
Eleanor swallowed.
“I've never opened it.”
Roman stared.
“Why not?”
“Because he told me to wait until I knew who had betrayed Father Brennan.”
Roman felt his pulse quicken.
“And now?”
She looked directly at him.
“Now I think we might be close.”
She opened the envelope.
Inside was a single letter and an old photograph.
Eleanor unfolded the letter.
Her eyes moved quickly.
Then stopped.
Her face drained of color.
Roman stepped nearer.
“What does it say?”
She handed it to him.
The letter was short.
Ellie, if you are reading this, I was unable to make them listen. Father Brennan discovered that the harbor trust was being used to move money through shell companies. The men responsible demanded access to the cathedral's restricted passageways, and when Michael refused, they threatened him.
I found proof that the replacement work order was forged. The man who signed it was not authorized by the church. He used a private security contractor's credentials.
Michael has copies of the financial evidence. He intends to show them to Roman Calder.
I warned Michael that Roman might not be safe.
He told me there was one man Roman trusted too much.
Roman stopped reading.
His chest tightened.
The next sentence was underlined.
The man with the silver ring knows where the papers are.
Roman lowered the letter.
Eleanor watched him.
“Do you know someone who wears a silver ring?”
Roman didn't answer.
Because he had spent twenty-three years seeing that ring.
A thick silver band.
Black onyx in the center.
A small engraved letter M.
Vincent Marlow wore it on his right hand.
Every day.
Including the day of the bombing.
Roman looked down at the photograph.
It showed Father Brennan standing outside the cathedral with Samuel Voss.
Beside them stood a third man.
His face was partly turned away.
But his right hand rested on the door.
And there, unmistakably, was the silver ring.
Eleanor's voice became barely audible.
“Roman?”
He stared at the photograph.
A terrible memory surfaced.
Hospital lights.
Bandages.
The siren screaming.
Vincent sitting beside his bed.
One hand gripping Roman's shoulder.
The silver ring catching the light.
You survived, brother. That's all that matters now.
Roman had believed him.
For seven years.
Then his phone vibrated again.
An unknown number.
A message appeared.
Tell the glass woman to stop digging.
Roman felt his blood run cold.
A second message followed.
You survived Saint Gabriel once. Don't make us finish what we started.
Eleanor saw his expression change.
“What happened?”
Roman slowly turned the phone toward her.
She read the messages.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Eleanor said something that surprised him.
“Good.”
Roman stared at her.
“Good?”
“They're frightened.”
“Eleanor, someone just threatened to kill us.”
“I know.”
Her hands trembled.
But she lifted her chin.
“My father died being called a liar. I'm not going to let the people responsible win because they know how to frighten someone.”
Roman watched her.
Most people confronted with a threat like that begged him for protection.
Eleanor was thinking about her father's reputation.
He understood that kind of stubbornness.
He had seen it in his mother.
And perhaps, once, in himself.
“I'm not asking you to stop,” he said.
“Then what are you asking?”
“To understand that this isn't just about a window anymore.”
Eleanor gave a quiet, humorless laugh.
“It hasn't been about a window for seven years.”
Before Roman could answer, Marcus called again.
This time his voice was urgent.
“Boss. Get away from the front windows.”
Roman's entire body went still.
“Why?”
“There's a white delivery van parked across the street. Two men inside. Engine running.”
Roman glanced toward the studio's front room.
The glass racks reflected pale streetlights.
“Can you identify them?”
“No. But one of them has a photograph of Miss Voss.”
Eleanor saw Roman's expression.
She understood immediately.
Then a sharp crack sounded outside.
A bullet struck the studio's front window.
Glass exploded across the floor.
Roman grabbed Eleanor and pulled her behind a heavy worktable.
A second shot shattered a hanging panel above them.
Fragments rained down.
Marcus shouted through the phone.
“Stay down!”
Roman pressed Eleanor against the concrete floor.
She was breathing hard.
Her hand gripped his sleeve.
And then, beneath the siren, Roman heard something he had not heard clearly in seven years.
A man's voice outside.
Not Marcus.
Not one of the gunmen.
A voice from the past.
A voice he remembered from the day Father Brennan died.
“Get the notebook!”
Roman froze.
May you like
Because the voice belonged to Vincent Marlow's younger brother.
A man who, according to the official Saint Gabriel bombing report, had been dead for seven years.
