Chapter 31: 31. A FATHER’S INSTINCT

Bob sighs, “I already told your friend.”

Noah shakes his head, conscious of the shadowy presence behind him. “You’re a good cop. Duncan is way too involved, but I know you do everything you can.” The words he regrets not saying aloud taste bitter in his tongue. His father has to listen to them coming out of a stranger’s mouth. 

Bob tightens his lips. “Duncan has suffered much, and to think my son is responsible for that suffering,” he falters, the words becoming a whisper until their drowned with a minute sob. “I’m sorry to all of you.”

Noah’s throat closes, he manages a strangled, “It’s not your fault.” He reaches up, but freezes before he can pat the man’s shoulders. “I’m sure you were a great father.” He lowers his hand. Noah wipes his eyes with the parka sleeve. “But parents can’t know everything.” He struggles a small smile, not happiness but sympathy. He hopes his father can understand he is not supposed to be perfect, that the love Noah knows he has in his heart for his son— even with the possibility of Noah being a killer— is enough.

Bob furrows his brows, his eyes are far away. “If I didn’t know as a father, I should’ve realized it as a cop.”

Noah closes his eyes to stop himself from tearing up. Upon releasing a shaky breath, he asks, “Did you notice something different in those last days?”

Bob shakes his head. “He’s a quiet kid. I thought he was happy.”

“Would you…” Noah swallows, “would you be willing to let us see his things?”

“The Major Crimes Unit went through his things. They didn’t find anything.”

“We,” Noah points at his own chest, and Rune behind him, “may have a different perspective of the things to look for.” Or Noah might be able to remember.

After a pause, Bob takes out his wallet. He stretches his palm, a shiny object in it. Noah takes the small key, inspecting the tag.

“It’s a storage key. I couldn’t take that part of my life with me. But I figured I couldn’t just throw his stuff out.” Bob explains. “The address and unit is written in it.”

Noah looks at the small key. How can you compress a life into a storage unit? His essence, everything that he liked, that he did. It fits there. And this might be his last opportunity at seeing them again. He might not be able to recover his past life, even if he can get his body back. It’s bittersweet. His father left him behind, keeping the pain away, locked. After all, Noah’s existence is a constant remainder. 

“I’ll give it back to you,” Noah promises. “We’ll leave everything as is.”

Bob shakes his head, taking in a deep breath, “Keep it. I want to be able to move on.”

Noah nods, “Thank you, Mr. Davies. We’ll make sure it’s safe.”

“I thought about it after you last left. You remind me of him.” Bob offers a sad smile, and goes back to the station. The glass doors close behind him. And Noah’s alone again, with the aftermath of such a bomb aching in his heart. He lost his father before— the day he died, or maybe the day Leo died—, but this time it’s so heart-breaking. Why does it hurt so much to lose something he doesn’t have?

A hand wraps around his wrist. Noah turns, finding Rune inches from him. His damp hair falls forward as he looks down, and his nose tingles Noah’s cheek. 

He resists the urge to reach up. “I guess we are all-clear.” He jingles the key ring, an unnatural smile tugging at his lips for Rune to see. They have what they wanted, what Noah wanted. He should be happy, he should show him how happy Noah is.

Rune’s eyes dart around his face, taking the key from where Noah is exhibiting the prize. He slides the little object inside a zipped pocket of his bomber. They cross the police parking lot to the bike, in carefully knitted silence. It’s an art they’ve been mastering since Noah woke up. Sometimes, it’s a tug-of-war. Other times, it’s more about seeking quiet from a noisy mind. Noah can’t read Rune’s thoughts, so he can only imagine some of his own mirrored in him. However, Rune’s silence is still a mystery to him.

Noah spends the twenty-minute ride repeating his father’s last words to him. The hopefulness in his heart spreading until reality crushes it once again. He must remember. If he doesn’t bring to light what happened, this is wound his father won’t be able to heal. Whether he’s the killer or not, he must find out the truth. 

The truth will set them free. 

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There’s no one controlling client traffic, so they directly go inside. The corridors are the same for Noah: rows of blue sliding doors— smaller than any garage, but essentially the same— with dirty white floors and fluorescent tubes adding an unsettling vibe. On Row 13, they search for Unit 7, and Rune opens the small storage.

There’s a dozen cardboard plain boxes with his father’s writing in black marker. Books. Posters. Bed sheets. Med. He approaches one labeled ‘Mugs’, he had forgotten his unhealthy obsession with collecting mugs. Noah laughs as he takes the switchblade from his bag. The blade glistens, even in the shadow of the place. 

“It’s a limited edition astrology mug.” He grabs the black mug, the golden accents shine in a constellation of dots and lines. “It’s a Gemini. My…” His voice trails off when he catches what he was about to say. “It’s beautiful.” He carefully places it inside, with mugs of many shapes and colors.

Then, he opens the ’Books’ box. Mythology books is a hobby he brought with himself when he took Riley’s body. He was fascinated by these stories as a child, when his grandfather would read them to him before sleep. The titles ring a bell deep inside. But he’s not quite sure he remembers the content, as if he read them a thousand years ago. As if they’re memories of a past life, as if Noah is watching through a thick glass. No matter how much he pounds in it, the hazy visions are blurry. 

He’s aware of Rune’s closeness when a pale hand shoot down to grab something. It’s stuck between a few books, so he has to yank it free. The spiral of the notebook is deformed— a dangerously large piece of it is just out—, and the covers are ripped and wrinkled. Something about that notebook feels intimate, so he snatches it before Rune can peek at the inside.

“I’ll read it,” Noah mutters. 

Not even a page in, he narrows his eyes. It’s written by him. The completeness of Noah sat down in his study desk to write this. The weight of the black ink pen lingers in his curled fingers. But it’s not Noah’s story. It’s not his.

“It’s about Daphne.” Noah explains, skipping ahead. “She prayed to Gaia for protection when Apollo pursued her. And the goddess turned her into a laurel.” But, “It’s written in first person. The writer is Daphne.”

“Did Noah need protection?”

Noah shakes his head. Did he? There is something about the words overlapping each other, and the kind of words he used. It unsettles Noah, and fear creeps up his throat. He drops the notebook in the box, shoving his hands in the pockets of his parka. Repulsion digs in stomach, leaving sticky marks of darkness. It clings to his legs, its tendrils climbing up, invading Noah without invitation. He turns around, his back to Daphne’s story. He wills for his lungs to keep breathing, even if it feel unnatural in the constrictive tension of that place. So many memories, so many emotions,…

Noah runs his gaze across the boxes, spotting an instrument case leaning against a wall. His cello. The strong carbon fiber—its deep mahogany color now muted by a layer of dust— case protects the Eastman cello. He’s thankful Bob didn’t sell the instrument. He runs his hand across the smooth surface of the case. The countless hours he spent carrying such a massive and valuable cargo at his back to the music lessons can be seen in the scratches, or the worn out zipper. 

He chose the Guarneri pattern over the others because he fell in love with the deepness and complexity of the instrument. He could feel the melancholy and insanity, the desperate longing. It reminded him of Greek tragedies. His fingers ache to play it before they leave to never come back to it. He bites his lower lip. If he was alone, he’d give in to the urge. He’d play once more. An ode to goodbyes, an apology. He’d say ‘I’ll come back if I can.’

He faces Rune, who is looking at him. He has been watching an entranced Noah caress an instrument that Riley hadn’t even touched. 

“It’s beautiful,” he explains, hoping it will be enough for Rune.

Rune looks at the cello. 

“Did you find anything?” Noah asks.

Rune shakes his head, still looking at the instrument. They go through each box together, and with each, Noah is overwhelmed by tiny smidgets of his life. Not the important stuff, but his love for taking notes in green, or his hatred for pink highlighter. As the details come to him, he finds himself feeling more tangible. A flesh-and-bone person used to scribble in these medical manuals. He was real when he played music.

They’ve spent the whole day sorting through the boxes, Noah realizes as he looks at the time in his phone. But more than the fatigue that slows his movements and put weight on his bones, he’s excited to know more. 

This boxes are not enough for his thirsty desire. 

He needs to pry more deeply. 

With a sideways glance, Noah asks, “Are you free tonight?”

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