Chapter 7 - THE BLUE NOTEBOOK.
The anonymous number stopped responding.
Gaby called once.
Straight to voicemail.
She texted:
Who is this?
Nothing.
Then:
What blue notebook?
Still nothing.
Robert watched her type a third message and stopped himself from telling her what to write.
She deleted it anyway.
“Could be fake,” he said.
“I know.”
“Could be someone trying to stir things up.”
“I know.”
“Could also be real.”
“I know.”
He nodded.
“I’ll stop.”
“That’d be new.”
Robert went to the window.
The motel parking lot was half empty.
A landscaping truck pulled in.
Two workers climbed out and ate lunch sitting on the tailgate.
Robert found himself looking at their uniforms.
Not because he recognized the company.
Because he wondered when they had clocked in.
It annoyed him that he had never thought that way before.
The blue notebook became an unanswered question.
But Evelyn warned Gaby not to chase it blindly.
“Anonymous messages can help identify a lead,” she said. “They are not magic evidence.”
“I know.”
“Good. Because people get into trouble when they decide the exciting explanation must be the correct one.”
Robert glanced at Gaby.
Gaby glanced back.
They both knew which one of them needed that reminder more.
That afternoon, North Bridge Residential finally responded to Evelyn.
Management claimed Gaby’s belongings remained in the unit.
They offered a supervised thirty-minute access period the following morning.
Gaby read the email three times.
“Thirty minutes?”
Robert looked over her shoulder.
“For an apartment?”
“They say retrieval of essential personal property.”
“You’re not moving an apartment in thirty minutes.”
“I know.”
“What do they define as essential?”
“No idea.”
Robert started to reach for his phone.
Gaby caught the movement.
“No.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
“I was going to call.”
“I know.”
She called Evelyn instead.
Evelyn advised her to attend, document the condition of the unit and take the most important items first.
“If anything is missing, make a list. Don’t argue in the hallway.”
Robert frowned.
“That sounds unsatisfying.”
Evelyn laughed.
“Law is often unsatisfying, Mr. Cole.”
The next morning they arrived at 9:00.
A North Bridge property manager named Lana Briggs met them outside 2B.
She wore a navy blazer and carried a tablet.
“You’re Gabriella?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Lana.”
Gaby introduced Robert as her father.
Lana’s eyes flicked toward him.
Recognition.
Robert knew the look.
She knew the name.
He immediately disliked how differently she stood afterward.
Her posture became straighter.
Her tone became warmer.
“Mr. Cole, of course. I’ve heard of your company.”
Robert didn’t respond.
Gaby noticed.
Lana unlocked the door.
The apartment smelled stale.
Boxes had been moved.
A kitchen chair was upside down on the table.
One closet stood open.
Gaby froze in the entry.
Robert almost asked what was wrong.
Then he saw her eyes moving from object to object.
This was her home.
Not a nice one.
Not a large one.
But hers.
And somebody had been inside while she could not enter.
“Thirty minutes,” Lana reminded them gently.
Gaby stepped in.
She went straight to the bedroom.
Robert followed carrying an empty duffel bag.
Leo was with Evelyn’s office receptionist, who had offered to watch him for the short access period.
Gaby opened drawers.
Clothes.
Baby blankets.
Documents.
She moved fast.
Then stopped.
“What?”
Robert asked.
“My laptop.”
“Where was it?”
“Closet shelf.”
She checked again.
Nothing.
“Anything else?”
“Leo’s portable fan.”
Robert remembered the baby’s flushed face.
Gaby opened another cabinet.
“His formula.”
“Could maintenance have moved it?”
Lana appeared in the doorway.
“Staff may have disposed of perishable food.”
“Formula isn’t perishable unopened,” Gaby said.
“I’d have to check.”
“Did they make an inventory?”
“I believe so.”
“Can I have it?”
“I’ll request it.”
Robert said nothing.
Gaby’s hands shook.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that she had trouble folding a onesie.
Robert took the clothing from her.
“Documents first.”
She nodded.
They packed birth certificate copies, employment papers, bank records, Leo’s medical documents, several changes of clothing and baby supplies.
At twenty-three minutes, Gaby opened a kitchen drawer.
Inside was a thick blue spiral notebook.
She stared at it.
Robert saw her expression.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She picked it up.
The cover was blue.
Cheap.
Office-supply-store blue.
Robert’s stomach tightened.
“Is that yours?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“My work notebook.”
“From Caldwell?”
“I used it for shift notes.”
Robert looked at the anonymous message on her phone.
ASK ABOUT THE BLUE NOTEBOOK.
Gaby flipped through pages.
Dates.
Event names.
Guest counts.
Setup times.
Breaks.
Tips.
Occasional names.
Then she stopped.
Several pages were missing.
Not torn cleanly.
Ripped.
You could see the ragged paper near the spiral binding.
“How many pages?” Robert asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Were they missing before?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
Gaby looked at him sharply.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what was on them?”
Her face changed.
“Some closing shifts.”
Robert felt the room narrow.
Lana called from the hallway.
“Ten minutes.”
Gaby raised the notebook.
“Who went through my things?”
Lana stepped into the room.
“I can’t say anyone went through them.”
“My notebook has pages missing.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Your staff entered.”
“Maintenance entered for a standard unit condition assessment.”
“Did they remove papers?”
“I don’t know.”
Robert stepped forward.
Then stopped.
Gaby looked at him.
She wanted to do this herself.
“Please give me the names of everyone who entered my apartment,” she said.
“I’ll have to check policy.”
“Then check.”
Lana’s professional smile faded.
Gaby continued.
“And I want the inventory you said exists.”
“I said I believe an inventory exists.”
“Then tell me whether it does.”
Lana looked toward Robert.
That was the mistake.
Not because Robert did anything.
Because Gaby saw it.
“You can answer me,” Gaby said.
Lana looked back.
“I’ll email you.”
“Today?”
“I’ll try.”
“Please do.”
They finished packing.
At the door Gaby photographed every room.
The last thing she photographed was the notebook.
Back at the motel, she opened it page by page.
Robert sat across from her.
Most entries were ordinary.
June 14 — Hollis wedding — 6 hrs.
June 18 — hospital fundraiser — 7.5.
July 2 — Oak Terrace corporate — clock 11:41 / left 12:26.
July 9 — Benson wedding — clock 11:55 / left 12:43.
Then a pattern.
Beside several entries, Gaby had written a small letter T.
“What’s T?” Robert asked.
“Trent.”
“What does it mean?”
“He told us to clock out.”
Robert looked at the missing pages.
“Were those marked too?”
“I think so.”
“Think?”
“I don’t remember every page.”
“Good.”
She looked at him.
“Good?”
“That you said you think instead of pretending you know.”
Gaby ran her thumb over the torn paper.
Robert studied the binding.
Then he noticed something.
The notebook had impressions.
Writing pressure from pages that no longer existed had left faint marks on the sheet underneath.
He angled it toward the lamp.
Gaby leaned closer.
Letters.
Numbers.
Hard to read.
Robert did not touch it.
“Don’t write on that page,” he said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“We may be able to see the impressions.”
“Without damaging it?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
He looked at her.
“Fair.”
They photographed the page under angled light.
The indentations became clearer.
A date.
A time.
Three initials.
And underneath them, five words Gaby had apparently written weeks earlier:
TRENT SAID CLOCK OUT NOW.
Gaby stared at the image.
Then she went very still.
“What?”
Robert asked.
She pointed to a second faint line.
He squinted.
It was harder to read.
But two words were unmistakable.
MARTIN HERE.
Robert looked at Gaby.
“Martin Caldwell?”
“I don’t know.”
She stared at the missing page.
“But if it was him, he wasn’t hearing about this from Trent later.”
May you like
She looked up.
“He may have been standing in the room when it happened.”
