Lying in the dark loosens something in my mind. What’s left is the stuff underneath, bubbling to the top, sitting there waiting for an unguarded moment to surface.
The six-week gap is haunting me. It’s just so strange how Dad’s meticulous notes stopped dead in the middle of an investigation with no final entry, no conclusion, no sign of distress. Just a Tuesday. Then nothing.
“Hey,” I say, not looking at Sting, but talking to the ceiling.
“Yeah?”
“Something’s been bugging me about my dad’s papers.”
He doesn’t respond, so I take that as listening.
“His notes are so careful. Every page is dated, every entry is in order. The man documented every meeting, number, and connection. For fourteen months straight, there wasn’t a single gap. Then everything just… stops. The last entry is from six weeks before he disappeared. I just don’t get it.”
Sting says nothing, so I keep babbling, as if running the story over and over in my head will magically produce an answer.
“There’s no final page, no ‘they found me’ note. Nothing.”
Sting’s staring at the ceiling. His body, which was loose and heavy a minute ago, the post-sex sprawl of a man who’d finally let loose, has gone still. Not tense exactly. Just… still.
“It’s weird, right?” I say. “Six weeks of nothing from a man who wrote down everything?”
He takes a long inhale. “Yeah, it’s weird.” His voice is flat, careful and gives me nothing. Which is normal for Sting, so I don’t read into it. Not too much, anyway.
I continue. “I keep telling myself they must have gotten to him before he could finish. That something happened fast and he didn’t have time to write it down. That’s the obvious answer. His last entry doesn’t read like a man who’s in danger. It reads like a man with time. The handwriting’s the same. Steady, in norush. If someone were closing in on you, wouldn’t you know? Wouldn’t something in the writing change?”
Sting doesn’t answer right away. Then: “Maybe. People don’t always know when things are about to go sideways.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re right.”
I let it go and roll to my side, closing my eyes. My brain has done its thing, turned over the rock, looked at what was underneath, and put it back. But the blasted gap is still there, unaccounted for.
“What was the date?” Sting asks.
My eyes open. “What?”
“The last entry. What was the date on it?”
It takes me a second. “March something. March 14th, I think. Maybe 15th. I’d have to check.”
“Hmmm.”
That’s it. Just “hmmm.” I wait for more but nothing comes. Sting asking a specific follow-up question about my father’s papers is unusual enough that I should probably pay attention to it. But I’m tired. My body is heavy and warm and the room’s dim light is making my eyelids droop. Whatever Sting is thinking about that date, he’s not sharing, and I don’t have the energy to pull it out of him.
I close my eyes and drift until it’s time to head back to the Rot.
52
STING
Three daysof watching Tommy and here’s what I know.
He wakes early, before most of the Rot is moving. I know this because I stationed myself in the west corridor at five a.m. and watched his door. He came out at five-forty, dressed, alert, no groggy shuffle. A man who wakes up ready. That tells me something. Most Rotters drag themselves into the day. Tommy leaps into it.
He goes to the communal area, gets coffee if there is any, water if there isn’t. He sits at the same table every day, not the main one where most people gather but a smaller one off to the side. Perfect viewing for watching who comes in, who leaves, and who’s talking to whom.
By seven, he’s at his station in the supply room, counting and logging. He does his job, keeping accurate numbers, contributing to the Rot’s trade operation. That’s smart. If you’re hiding, you don’t slack. You make yourself useful and try not to stand out.
I know that too, hell it’s what I’d do.
