Chapter 2 - The Notebook My Father Hid Behind Tax Manuals

Cece’s house stood three streets behind the station, a narrow blue colonial she had inherited from her parents along with a stubborn roof leak and more memories than square footage.

Marcus parked the SUV at the curb. He did not like Cece. That much was obvious.

“You always bring civilians into sensitive family business?” he asked Max as they walked up the porch.

“No,” Max said.

“Good to know today is special.”

Cece unlocked the door. “Take your shoes off.”

Marcus stared at her.

“My mother refinished these floors herself.”

He looked at Max as though expecting rescue.

Max removed his shoes.

Marcus muttered something in Italian and followed.

The black notebook was where Cece had left it years ago, behind a row of tax manuals in her father’s study. She had never understood most of it. Her father, Thomas Rowan, had managed freight signaling before moving to passenger operations late in his career. The pages were filled with numbers, train abbreviations, dates, and hand-drawn route maps.

Cece set it on the kitchen table.

Max did not touch it.

“Your father ever mention Sofia?”

“Not once.”

“Corvelli?”

“Only when your refrigeration trucks blocked the loading lane.”

Marcus almost smiled.

Cece opened the notebook to the inside cover.

There it was.

A violet crown.

Below it, in her father’s block handwriting, were four letters.

S.C. SAFE.

Max went white.

Not pale. White.

Marcus stepped forward. “S.C. could mean anything.”

“Sofia’s middle name was Caterina,” Max said.

The room changed.

Cece suddenly felt as though her father’s house contained another person, invisible but present in every object.

She turned pages more carefully.

Near the middle, one date had been circled three times.

November 14, eleven years earlier.

The week Sofia disappeared.

Beside it: 23:40, SA-4, transfer canceled, girl moved east, no badge.

Marcus swore.

“What does SA-4 mean?” Max asked.

“Probably St. Aldwyn, platform four,” Cece said.

Max leaned over the page. “Moved east where?”

The next line contained only coordinates.

Marcus entered them into his phone.

“Queens,” he said. “Old industrial waterfront.”

Max reached for his jacket.

Cece blocked him with one hand. “There are more pages.”

He looked annoyed by the existence of time.

She turned to the weeks after Sofia vanished. Her father had recorded freight car numbers and initials, then stopped abruptly.

The final entry related to the crown was dated six months later.

If S. contacts M., both die. V. controls police channel. Protect until old man falls.

Max stared at the letter V.

Marcus did not move.

Cece watched both men.

“Who is V?”

Max closed the notebook.

“My uncle.”

“Vittorio Corvelli?”

“Yes.”

Even Cece knew that name. Vittorio had been the elegant older brother of Max’s father, the man who appeared at charity dinners, hospital openings, and political fundraisers. He had died three years ago in Florida, according to the local papers.

“What does ‘until old man falls’ mean?”

“My father,” Max said. “Probably.”

Marcus shook his head. “This proves nothing. Thomas Rowan could’ve been writing rumors.”

“Then why did he hide it?” Cece asked.

Marcus turned on her. “Maybe because people who collect rumors about Corvellis learn caution.”

Max’s head snapped toward him.

“That sounded like a threat.”

“It was advice.”

“To her?”

“To everyone.”

Silence held for a beat.

Cece closed the notebook. “If my father helped Sofia, I need to know why. And if someone is sending you messages using a system connected to him, I’m already involved whether Marcus likes it or not.”

“I don’t,” Marcus said.

“Your face mentioned it.”

Max looked between them, then took the notebook and handed it back to Cece.

“We go to St. Aldwyn first. Not Queens.”

Marcus frowned. “Why?”

“Because whoever sent the ticket wanted us to start there.”

The drive into Manhattan took nearly two hours in Friday traffic.

St. Aldwyn Terminal had been sealed since the tunnel fire. Its street entrance sat beneath scaffolding, flanked by chain-link fencing and faded municipal notices. Max’s men had already arranged access through a property manager who appeared too nervous to ask questions.

The old concourse smelled of wet concrete and rust.

Cece used her phone flashlight as they descended a service stairwell. The clocks had stopped at 2:08. Dust coated abandoned benches. Old advertisements peeled from tiled walls.

Platform four lay beyond a locked gate.

Marcus broke the corroded chain with bolt cutters.

“That’s definitely legal,” Cece whispered.

“No,” Max said.

“I appreciate clarity.”

At the far end of the platform, beneath the black mouth of the closed tunnel, they found the old conductor booth.

Inside, everything had been stripped except a metal stool and a row of hooks.

One hook held a fresh cream envelope.

Max stopped six feet away.

His breathing changed.

Cece saw his hand flex.

“Could be wired,” Marcus warned.

“I’ll check it.”

He examined the booth, then the envelope, before passing it to Max.

On the front were two handwritten words.

For Massimo.

Max opened it.

Inside was a photograph.

Sofia stood beside Cece’s father.

Both looked younger. Terrified. Alive.

Behind them was a brick wall painted with a faded lighthouse.

On the back, Thomas Rowan had written:

She chose disappearance over burial. I helped her choose.

Below that, in different handwriting, were five words.

I am still alive, Max.

Cece barely had time to read them.

A metallic click sounded in the tunnel.

Marcus drew his gun.

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Max pulled Cece behind the booth.

Then the lights across the dead platform came on, one by one, leading deeper underground.