Chapter 4Nineteen Calls She Never Answered

There wasn't much inside Jonah’s locker.

A few half-finished geometry workbooks. A windbreaker with an ink stain on the left cuff.

And tucked all the way in the back, wrapped carefully in a clean plastic grocery bag, was a small wooden music box.

Rachel had brought it back from a conference in Switzerland when Jonah was ten. It was just a generic, mass-produced souvenir from an airport gift shop.

Yet Jonah had guarded it like a holy relic.

Because it was the only gift his mother had ever picked out herself, rather than having her executive assistant order something from an online wish list.

The winding key on the bottom was slightly rusted; whenever you turned it, the gears would click with a faint, mechanical hesitation.

The tune it played was "Theme from Castle in the Sky".

I set the music box gently into the center of the cardboard box, gathered his notebooks around it, and walked out into the falling snow.

By eight that evening, I had finished packing my belongings into two modest suitcases in the living room.

There wasn't much of mine in that house anyway. Nearly every square foot was dominated by Rachel’s reference libraries, framed clinical certifications, and the various therapeutic relaxation devices she had purchased for Micah’s treatment.

The front door lock clicked.

Rachel and Micah walked in together, laughing about something. They were carrying white paper bags from an upscale omakase place downtown.

"Sam! We brought back extra spicy tuna rolls and sashimi," Micah called out cheerily, kicking off his shoes. "Come have some dinner!"

I was sitting on the sofa, the cardboard box containing Jonah’s final possessions resting across my lap.

I didn't move.

Rachel stepped into the living room, her eyes instantly falling upon the two packed suitcases beside the foyer. Her brows knitted into that familiar knot of irritated fatigue.

"And what melodrama are we staging now? The runaway husband routine?" She set the takeout bags on the dining table, her voice dripping with disdain. "Sam, I’ve had a grueling six-hour seminar. I do not have the bandwidth for your passive-aggressive theatrics."

I didn't answer. I just kept my thumb resting against the cardboard edge of the box.

Micah wandered over, his eyes drifting down to the contents on my lap. His gaze landed on the polished walnut finish of the music box.

"Oh, wow," Micah breathed, his eyes lighting up. "What a gorgeous vintage music box!"

He reached out his hand to pick it up.

"Rachel, listen to the acoustic resonance on this wood—the low-frequency hum would be incredible for regulating my nighttime panic attacks."

I jerked the box violently to the side, knocking his hand away.

"Don't touch it," I said, my voice dead.

Micah’s hand hung in midair. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth, looking wounded. "Sam, I was just admiring it..."

"Sam, honestly, is this necessary?" Rachel crossed the room, looking down at me from her towering posture. "It’s a cheap wooden trinket. If Micah likes it, let him borrow it. Jonah is fourteen years old; why is he still hoarding nursery toys anyway?"

"This belongs to Jonah," I repeated.

My hands began to tremble. It took every shred of restraint in my marrow not to drive a steak knife into the table between us.

"Stop using Jonah as a shield for your own spite!" Rachel’s temper finally snapped. "You are deliberately targeting Micah! What did this poor boy ever do to you? If you’re so attached to a piece of junk, I’ll buy Jonah ten brand-new ones tomorrow! Give it here!"

She reached down with both hands and grabbed the cardboard box, yanking it upward with furious strength.

"Let go of it! Rachel, do not touch it!"

I lunged forward, clawing at the box like an animal. It was all I had left of my boy.

Rachel jerked backward with full force. The box tilted violently.

The wooden music box slipped over the cardboard edge.

It arced through the air.

And smashed hard against the Italian marble flooring.

"Crack."

The walnut casing split down the middle. The brass tines and tiny pinned cylinder ripped free, scattering metallic gears across the tiles.

The mangled spring gave three agonizing, out-of-tune plinks of "Castle in the Sky" before seizing completely.

The living room plunged into absolute silence.

I stared down at the splintered wood and scattered gears.

The tears that had been dried up inside me finally broke through, falling in heavy, burning drops onto the backs of my hands.

"Why did you break it...?"

I dropped to my knees on the cold tile, gathering the sharp fragments with my bare fingers. A jagged shard of walnut sliced deep into my palm. Blood welled up, thick and crimson, dripping onto the shattered wood.

I didn't feel the cut.

"He’s already dead!" I screamed, looking up at Rachel with every ounce of air in my lungs. "He’s dead, and you still won't stop tearing him apart! What right do you have to give his things away?! What right do you have?!"

Rachel stared at the blood dripping from my fingers, momentarily stunned into silence.

But within seconds, that impenetrable wall of clinical armor snapped back over her face.

"You are truly, terrifyingly sick, Sam," she said, stepping back with open revulsion and pulling a tissue from her pocket to wipe a microscopic speck of dust from her sleeve. "Dead? To manipulate me, you’re actually sitting there wishing death upon your own flesh and blood? You are an unfit father."

Micah shrank behind her, visibly shaking, clamping a hand over his mouth.

Right then, the doorbell rang.

It wasn't a gentle chime. It was a heavy, relentless pounding on the solid wood.

Rachel frowned, walking over with sharp, irritated steps and pulling the door open.

Two uniformed police detectives stood in the brightly lit hallway.

Behind them stood the high school vice principal, his skin the color of wet chalk, his forehead slick with cold sweat.

"Good evening. Are you Dr. Rachel Bennett?" the lead detective asked, his expression grim as he held a thick leather portfolio.

"Yes, I am," Rachel smoothed her blazer, instantly shifting into her polished, professional cadence. "How can I help you, officers?"

The detective checked the file in his hand.

"Regarding your son, Jonah Bennett-Holland, who was pronounced dead on arrival following a fall from the roof of the Central High library annex yesterday evening at approximately 7:30 PM."

He paused, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a serrated blade.

"We are here to deliver the formal Notice of Death, and we require your presence to review the suicide note recovered at the scene."

The irritation on Rachel’s face did not shift into sadness.

It simply turned to stone.