Page 44 of Carver’s Craving

Styx

Iasked the computer nicely to read me several news articles. So I could feel like I was keeping up with world events. I wasn’t—but I liked to believe I somehow could. The world’s problems felt too monumental. Climate change, wars, famines, politics…plus all the other crap. A guy who killed his wife in my hometown. Like…just depressing.

After swallowing that emotion, I tackled industry news. Things were a little less depressing on that front. In fact, a band I knew just had a hit single. Good for them. Doubt that’ll ever happen for me again. Which was sort of depressing. We’d been on the cusp of something amazing. The circumstances around Frank’s death had never sat right with me, but I couldn’t figure out why. Well, the stalker ensuring the light dropped on Frank’s head was bizarre enough. But…nope. I couldn’t put my finger on what else was wrong. But that feeling had followed me all the way from Oshawa.

I checked my email, but found nothing interesting. Certainly not an email from our former manager telling us that the record executives had changed their mind.

Nope. Not that.

The television beckoned, but I didn’t want to go to that so soon. Reading was really out, despite the fact Carver had plenty of books and I still had the one on the history of Mission City. Right now, though, my head hurt too much to concentrate like that. I could download an audiobook from my library back home—because they didn’t know I’d moved yet—but that meant listening, and I tended to fall asleep while doing that. Not something I needed.

Dishes were done.

Dinner for tonight was organized.

Dogs did not need to be walked.

Nope, I’d done that at noon and everyone had done everything. I’d scooped. I was proud of myself.

I headed back to my room. Well, the room Carver had loaned me. My clothes sat neatly stacked on a chair. I could put those away. Like, maybe act like a grown up. Decide I’m here for a while.

As I hung some clothes in the closet and headed toward the dresser with the rest, I could admit I was here until next Monday. Because we were hosting Ryan, Simeon, and Chia Saturday night. Then the train wouldn’t leave until Monday.

You were totally out of line inviting them here. Carver should’ve been pissed. Hell, he probably was pissed. If he’d reamed you out, then you would’ve deserved it. I’d extended the invitation with the idea of continuing the connection we’d made with the men. Maybe also of showing off some of my cooking skills. Mostly to guarantee I could stay another week. You could’ve just asked instead of manipulating.

Well, I hadn’t. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission? Or so my mother used to say. Since I wasn’t leaving for a week, I opened the dresser drawer. Damn thing was heavy—which should’ve been my first clue that something was off. Assuming the thing was just sticky, though, I tugged hard, and it slid open.

And frowned. Okay…not what I expected.

I pivoted, dropped my clothes on the bed, and then returned to what I’d discovered.

Papers. Reams and reams of paper. And not organized. Nope. Some sheets, some scribblings on napkins, and a couple of envelopes covered in scrawl.

You know this is a bad idea. You know you don’t have any right to snoop. You know this is wrong, and— Yeah, that train of thought ended when I found musical notes. Whatever admonishments had been going through my head now disappeared.

With the utmost care, I removed the yellowing paper. Age was taking a toll on the writing, but I could still make it out.

Isn’t it better to ask forgiveness than permission? Or some shit like that? Plus, Carver will never know. I certainly didn’t plan on telling him. I checked my phone and discovered I had at least three hours before Carver returned. He’d been very specific and said the five-thirty time rarely varied. That he’d take the dogs out, have a shower, and eat dinner. Well, I intended to have taken the dogs out and to have his dinner ready and warming. Least I could do.

I put my clothes, still in a pile, back on the chair. Then, as gently as I could, I removed the first pile of papers. I hope these aren’t in any order. They look haphazard. Still, I snapped a photo to remind myself. I sat on the bed next to the pile and started sorting. First came anything with musical notes. I struggled with words, but music was my jam. The one thing that came easily to me. The reason I’d started the band with my two best friends. I’d studied music in high school as well—band class had been my favorite class—but spending time in my garage creating songs had gone a long way to keeping me sane.

As I hummed the melody, my mind whirled. Did Carver write this? Was it for someone? Has he ever shared it? The handwriting was made with a flourish, but that didn’t preclude a man writing it. I’d been horrendous at cursive—and of course he’d used the thing that was the hardest for me to read—but I was damn well going to try.

The notes didn’t all make sense, but the words fit the rhythm. Whoever had written this had some idea of what they were doing. I should assume it’s Carver…but something makes me doubt that. That niggling resurfaced—much like the day Frank died. I was missing a piece, and I just couldn’t figure out what.

Next, I tackled the words. Written on every conceivable place someone could write. The back of a menu, little bits, a newspaper clipping with notes in the margin.

I squinted at the date and tried to make it out.

1988.

Now I tried to do math—which wasn’t great, but was certainly better than words.

You have a calculator on your phone.

Duh.

I yanked it out and had the phone do the math. About thirty-eight years. To the best of my recollection, Carver was thirty-seven. So unless someone had kept this clipping around for years and years, this wasn’t his note. Anything was possible—but that felt unlikely. A parent? Grandparent? Some random person? I just didn’t know.