The mountains swallowed Ezra's cell signal just past the Covenridge town limits, exactly where they always had. He watched the bars on his phone disappear one by one until the device displayed "No Service" with an almost audible finality. His hazel eyes narrowed, tracking the precise moment of digital severance with the same analytical focus he'd applied to surveillance operations in Seattle. Fitting, he thought, unconsciously tapping a rhythmic pattern against the steering wheel. Some things hadn't changed in the fourteen years since he'd left.

Ezra Patel adjusted his grip on the steering wheel as his sedan navigated the familiar curves of Mountain View Road. The late April sunshine filtered through budding trees, casting dappled shadows across his lean features and illuminating the vertical line that had appeared between his brows. His car, packed with methodically organized boxes of essentials he'd deemed worth bringing from his Seattle apartment, groaned at each switchback. The vintage messenger bag containing his notebooks and investigative tools sat on the passenger seat, within easy reach.

"Almost there," he said to no one in particular. Talking to himself—a habit from too many solo surveillance gigs. He'd need to break that now that he was back in a town where everyone noticed everything. He ran a hand through his neglected brown hair, overdue for a cut but perpetually low on his priority list.

Covenridge revealed itself in stages as he rounded the final bend: first the white steeple of the community church, then the scattered rooftops of Main Street businesses, and finally the entirety of the small mountain town tucked into its sheltered valley. From this vantage point, it looked frozen in time—a postcard image barely changed from his childhood memories. He mentally cataloged the slight differences—new solar panels on the community center, a refurbished gazebo in the central square—changes most visitors would miss entirely.

As he descended into town, Ezra passed the weathered wooden sign that had greeted visitors since before his birth: "Welcome to Covenridge—Where Sound Finds Home." Below it, someone had recently added a smaller sign: "Free Wi-Fi at the Library (When It Works)."

Ezra smiled despite himself. That addition perfectly captured the town's reluctant relationship with the digital age. His eyes caught the thin scar along his jaw in the rearview mirror, a faded reminder of a childhood accident at Singer's Fall that sent an involuntary shiver through his frame.

Main Street unfolded before him: the hardware store, post office, and Dahlia's coffee shop—"Brewedly Awakened" according to the hand-painted sign. Further down stood Mrs. Abbott's bookstore, its bay windows filled with carefully arranged displays that triggered memories of Saturday mornings lost among mystery novels. The buildings looked smaller than he remembered, their facades weather-beaten but well-maintained.

He parked in front of Hargrove's Hardware, killing the engine with a decisive turn of the key. Time to face the music—literally, given Covenridge's obsession with its musical heritage. He stepped out, the spring mountain air sharp in his lungs after the car's staleness. The particular acoustic quality of the valley struck him immediately—the way sounds carried with unusual clarity one moment, then seemed absorbed by the mountains the next. A detail his corporate security reports would have classified as irrelevant, but that his investigative instincts flagged as potentially significant.

"Well, look what the cat dragged back."

Ezra turned to find Harold Hargrove himself emerging from the hardware store, wiping his hands on a rag. The old man hadn't changed much—same bushy eyebrows, same plaid shirt tucked into belted jeans, perhaps a few more lines around the eyes. Ezra noted the slight arthritis in Hargrove's right hand, the fresh paint stains on his work boots, the faint scent of cedar that suggested a recent lumber delivery.

"Mr. Hargrove," Ezra said, extending his hand with the formal precision that characterized his professional interactions. "Nice to see you again."

Hargrove gave Ezra's hand a firm shake. "Heard you were coming back. Didn't quite believe it until now." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Your folks would've been pleased, God rest them."

"I hope so." Ezra cleared his throat, the familiar tightness forming when his parents were mentioned. The vertical line between his brows deepened momentarily. "Is the space above the store still available?"

"It's yours if you want it. Nothing fancy, mind you. Been using it for storage mostly." Hargrove's gaze moved over Ezra's lean frame, taking in the oxford shirt under a worn blazer with leather elbow patches, the dark jeans, and sturdy boots that had seen considerable wear.

"Perfect. I don't need fancy." Ezra's response came in the complete, carefully structured sentence that characterized his professional communication.

Hargrove produced a set of keys from his pocket. "Second floor, end of the hall, right side. Rent's due first of the month, utilities included." He paused. "What exactly are you planning to do up there, anyway?"

Ezra reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card from his messenger bag, freshly printed with "Patel Investigations" in simple black lettering. "Private investigator."

Hargrove barked a laugh. "PI in Covenridge? What are you gonna investigate—who's sneaking extra zucchini onto Mabel Wilson's porch during growing season?"

"Everyone needs help finding things sometimes," Ezra replied, keeping his tone neutral while his fingers unconsciously tapped a faint rhythm against his leg. He'd anticipated skepticism. "Lost items, answers, people—that's my specialty."

"Well, good luck with that." Hargrove tossed him the keys. "Need a hand with your stuff?"

"I've got it, thanks."

Ezra spent the next hour carrying boxes and suitcases up the narrow staircase to his new home and office, arranging them in precise categories that would have appeared arbitrary to anyone else but followed his internal organizational logic. The space was dusty but promising—a large front room with windows overlooking Main Street, a small kitchen area, bathroom, and bedroom in the back. The sloped ceiling gave it character, even if he had to duck in certain spots.

After setting up the bare essentials, he stood at the window, watching the afternoon traffic on Main Street—mostly locals running errands, a few out-of-town vehicles probably belonging to hikers. His trained eye categorized and classified each movement below, separating routine patterns from anomalies. He'd need to install a proper desk, maybe a couch for clients. A filing cabinet. A corkboard for his hand-drawn maps and case notes. Professional touches to announce that Ezra Patel was open for business and should be taken seriously.

His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since the gas station coffee and muffin three hours ago. Food first, then supplies. And while he was out, he might as well start reintroducing himself to Covenridge.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Ezra entered Resonant Pages, Mrs. Abbott's bookstore. The familiar scent hit him immediately—old paper, leather bindings, and the faint trace of lavender that had been a constant throughout his childhood visits. The shop looked smaller than in his memories but no less magical, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and reading nooks tucked between them.

"May I help you find something?" The voice came from behind a stack of newly arrived books, familiar despite the years.

"Hello, Mrs. Abbott," Ezra said, rounding the counter. "It's been a while."

Mrs. Abbott looked up, her silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in its customary bun secured with wooden pins. Recognition flickered in her dark brown eyes—Ezra noted the unusual amber flecks within them—followed by genuine warmth. Her long-fingered hands, adorned with several vintage silver rings, set down the pricing gun with deliberate grace that hinted at a dancer's past.

"Ezra Patel," she said, her voice shifting subtly to a warmer, more musical tone than she'd used before recognizing him. "My goodness. All grown up and back in Covenridge." She studied his face with an intensity that suggested she was comparing him to a catalog of memories. "You have your mother's eyes. And your father's worried forehead."

Ezra self-consciously touched the crease between his brows. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to those who remember you as a boy who spent every Saturday morning hiding in my mystery section." She gestured to a well-worn armchair in the corner, her flowing sleeve revealing a glimpse of a distinctive moonstone ring as she moved. "That chair still creaks in the same places, if you'd like to reacquaint yourself."

"I'm actually here to browse. And maybe catch up a bit." Ezra's eyes tracked the subtle way Mrs. Abbott's fingers touched the moonstone ring when their conversation approached personal territory—a tell he filed away automatically.

Mrs. Abbott nodded, returning to her pricing. "Browse away. The organization system might confuse you at first. I've rearranged things according to... let's call it emotional resonance."

"Meaning?"

"Books that evoke similar feelings live near each other, regardless of author or genre." She waved a hand dismissively, the movement unexpectedly graceful. "Unconventional, I know, but my regular customers have adapted."

Ezra wandered through the stacks, noting the unusual juxtapositions—a thriller next to a gardening manual, a romance alongside a physics textbook. Yet somehow, as he pulled books from the shelves at random, he felt a strange coherence to the pairings, as if they were organized according to some internal emotional logic he couldn't quite grasp but could sense existed.

As he browsed, the musical note of the door chime cut through his concentration, causing his fingers to pause on the spine of a leather-bound mystery. A man in his forties entered, scanning the store with the intent look of someone searching for something specific. Ezra remained partially hidden behind a tall bookshelf, his investigator's instinct automatically shifting to observation mode.

"Mrs. Abbott," the man said, approaching the counter. "I was wondering if you've had any luck with that special order I inquired about last month."

From his position, Ezra couldn't see Mrs. Abbott's expression, but he noted the slight hesitation in her voice and the subtle shift to a more controlled, formal delivery.

"Mr. Keller." Her hand moved briefly to touch the moonstone ring. "I'm afraid not. That particular pressing of The Starlight Wanderers' 'Midnight Reverberations' rarely comes on the market. When it does, the asking price is... substantial."

Ezra's ears perked up at the band name. The Starlight Wanderers—Covenridge's claim to musical fame, a cult band from the late '80s and early '90s. He'd been too young to attend their performances, but their reputation had seeped into the town's collective identity. His parents had owned several of their albums, he recalled, though they rarely discussed the band directly.

"Price isn't an issue," Keller insisted, leaning forward slightly. "It's the pressing that matters. Original run, with the message in the dead wax."

Ezra filed away the term "dead wax"—the silent groove between the end of the music and the label on vinyl records. His memory flashed to a corporate case involving authentication of collector's items, where such details had proven crucial.

"I understand," Mrs. Abbott replied, her tone cooling slightly. She straightened to her full height, her posture shifting subtly from shopkeeper to something more formidable. "But I can't conjure rare vinyl from thin air. Perhaps try The Turntable on Cedar Street. They occasionally get collector's items."

"I've tried there. Nothing." Keller leaned closer, lowering his voice, though Ezra could still hear him. "Look, I know you have connections from... back then. If anyone could find this record, it's you."

Ezra noticed the tension in Mrs. Abbott's shoulders, the tightening of her fingers around the pricing gun, the slight increase in her breathing rate—all micro-expressions of distress he'd been trained to identify during his corporate security work.

"Mr. Keller, I've told you what I know. Now, is there something else I can help you with today?" Her voice had taken on a clear edge, and she touched the moonstone ring again, rotating it slightly on her finger.

The man sighed, clearly defeated. "No, thank you. But please let me know if you hear anything." He placed a business card on the counter before leaving, the bell announcing his departure with the same cheerful tone as his arrival.

Ezra approached the counter, pretending he hadn't overheard. Mrs. Abbott was staring at the business card with an unreadable expression, her long fingers hovering over it as if it might burn her.

"Find anything interesting?" she asked, quickly slipping the card into a drawer. The transition back to her bookseller persona was almost seamless, but Ezra caught the lingering tension in the corners of her eyes.

"Just getting reacquainted." Ezra held up a mystery novel. "I'll take this to start rebuilding my library."

As she rang up his purchase, he casually asked, "The Starlight Wanderers—they still have quite a following, don't they?"

Mrs. Abbott's fingers paused briefly on the register keys. For just a moment, something flashed in her eyes—a look that seemed decades younger, more fierce, before disappearing behind her carefully maintained composure. "Some obsessions never fade. Especially when tragedy is involved." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Nostalgia is Covenridge's most reliable export these days."

"I've opened an investigation business," Ezra said, changing the subject while mentally filing away her reaction. "Above Hargrove's Hardware."

"Have you? Well, that's certainly more interesting than corporate security." At his surprised look, she added, "Small town, Ezra. Your career moves weren't exactly state secrets around here." She wrapped his book in brown paper with practiced movements, her silver rings catching the light.

"Right." Of course people had kept tabs on him. "It seemed like the right time to come home."

"Home," Mrs. Abbott repeated, with a curious emphasis on the word, her gaze momentarily distant as if seeing beyond the walls of the bookstore. "Yes, I suppose Covenridge is that, despite everything." She handed him his book in a paper bag. "Welcome back. Don't be a stranger this time."

Stepping outside, Ezra noticed the sudden darkening of the sky to the west. His meteorological knowledge, honed through years of outdoor surveillance work, recognized one of Covenridge's famous pocket weather patterns forming—a storm system that might drench half the town while leaving the other half in sunshine. He'd forgotten how quickly the mountain weather could turn.

The first fat raindrops hit the sidewalk as he made it halfway to his car. By the time he reached for the door handle, the skies had opened completely. Abandoning his original plan, Ezra dashed across the street toward the welcoming glow of "Brewedly Awakened," messenger bag clutched protectively against his chest.

The coffee shop was busier than he expected for mid-afternoon, a mix of locals and what appeared to be hikers sheltering from the sudden downpour. The interior was warm and inviting—original wooden floors, mismatched vintage furniture, and the rich aroma of fresh coffee. Behind the counter, a woman with auburn hair twisted in a complex braid was steaming milk with practiced precision. Ezra noted how other patrons oriented themselves around her like planets around a sun, suggesting her centrality to the community's social fabric.

Ezra joined the short line, studying the chalkboard menu with its hand-lettered offerings. Each drink had been given a name that seemed more like a story title than a coffee description: "Mist Gatherer's Morning," "Solstice Promise," "Maxwell's Melody." He automatically cataloged the pattern—not alphabetical, not by ingredient, but possibly by some emotional quality the beverages evoked.

When his turn came, he found himself facing the woman with the auburn hair, whose name tag read "Dahlia—Owner." Up close, he noticed her striking green eyes that seemed to be assessing him with unusual intensity. She carried herself with a grounded confidence that commanded attention despite her practical earth-toned dress and minimal adornments. Around her neck hung what appeared to be a riverstone wrapped in silver wire.

"What can I get you?" she asked, her direct gaze suggesting she was cataloging his features just as systematically as he was observing hers.

"What's in Maxwell's Melody?" The name had caught his attention, triggering a connection to his earlier conversation at the bookstore.

Dahlia's green eyes widened slightly, her hand pausing mid-motion above the espresso machine, a momentary stillness that spoke volumes to someone trained to notice such breaks in rhythm. "Dark roast with hints of cherry and chocolate, touch of cinnamon. Strong but not bitter. Tends to linger on the palate." She tilted her head slightly, her fingers absently touching the riverstone pendant. "You're new. Or rather, you're back."

"That obvious?" Ezra's hand unconsciously moved to the scar along his jawline.

"Covenridge doesn't get many new faces, and the returning ones are usually more interesting." She extended her hand with an unaffected directness. "Dahlia Greenwood."

"Ezra Patel." He shook her hand, noting her firm grip and the small burns and calluses that spoke of years of hands-on work.

"Patel," she repeated, testing the name. "Your parents were the professors. The accident about three years ago—I'm sorry."

"Thank you," he said automatically, the familiar response to a familiar condolence.

"So, Maxwell's Melody?" She gestured toward the coffee equipment, somehow communicating that she already knew his answer would be yes.

"That sounds perfect."

As Dahlia prepared his drink, Ezra surveyed the shop. The walls were covered with local artwork and photographs—landscapes, community events, and musicians performing at various venues. One section appeared dedicated to The Starlight Wanderers, featuring candid shots of performances and backstage moments. His investigator's eye noted how the display was arranged not chronologically but in some pattern he couldn't immediately discern.

"Storm will last exactly seventeen minutes," Dahlia commented without looking up from the espresso machine. "Always does when it forms over Crower's Ridge this time of year." She worked with focused precision, each movement economical and practiced.

"Here you go." Dahlia handed him a large ceramic mug. "Find a seat if you can. Storm's likely to last about twenty minutes, based on the cloud patterns."

Ezra found an empty table near the wall of photographs and settled in with his coffee and new book. The coffee was excellent—complex and warming, with exactly the flavor notes Dahlia had described. As he sipped, his attention kept drifting to the photographs on the wall, his brain automatically attempting to decode their organizational logic.

One image in particular drew his eye—a young woman with flowing dark hair, head thrown back in mid-performance, mouth open in what must have been a powerful note. Her eyes were closed in the picture, but something about her face seemed oddly familiar. Even in the still photograph, she projected an ethereal quality that transcended conventional beauty. Below the photo, a small plaque read: "Aria—The Starlight Music Hall, Final Performance, 1990."

"That's Aria," Dahlia said, appearing beside his table with a cloth to wipe down the neighboring surface. "Lead singer of The Starlight Wanderers."

"I've heard of them, but I was too young to have seen them perform," Ezra replied, studying the photograph. Those high cheekbones, the shape of the mouth—why did they seem familiar? And then it struck him—the resemblance to Mrs. Abbott was subtle but undeniable.

"She had a voice that made time stop," Dahlia said, her tone almost reverential. "At least that's what everyone says. I was just a kid when..." She trailed off, touching her riverstone pendant briefly. "Maxwell's recording techniques captured something most studios couldn't—the space between notes, the breath before the phrase. He lives out by the river now. Hasn't played publicly since Aria died." She nodded toward his cup. "How's the Melody?"

"It lives up to its name. Named after someone specific?" Ezra kept his tone casual, though his mind was already connecting points: Maxwell, the river, Aria, Mrs. Abbott's reaction, the dead wax message.

"Maxwell Richards. Founder of the band, producer, guitar. A musical genius and complicated man." Dahlia glanced at the rain streaming down the windows. "Storm's moving east. Should clear up in about five minutes." Her weather prediction came with the confidence of someone intimately familiar with local patterns.

Sure enough, the downpour began to slacken, and sunlight soon broke through the clouds, creating that particular post-rain luminosity that made Covenridge look like a town in a snow globe.

As promised, the rain stopped completely within minutes. Ezra finished his coffee and gathered his things. His fingers tapped a rhythmic pattern against the table edge as he processed the information he'd gathered so far.

"Thanks for the shelter and the coffee," he said, returning the mug to the counter.

"Any time." Dahlia gave him a considering look, as though weighing what to share. "So what brings you back to Covenridge, Ezra Patel?"

"I've opened a private investigation office above the hardware store." He delivered this in his professional voice—complete sentences, precise diction.

Her eyebrows rose slightly. "Private investigator? In Covenridge? That's either very ambitious or very desperate."

"Maybe a bit of both," he admitted with a small smile, his formal demeanor cracking slightly.

"Well, good luck. This town has plenty of secrets if you know where to look." She nodded toward his empty mug. "And judging by your choice of coffee, you might be more interested in some than others."

Before Ezra could ask what she meant, the bell over the door chimed as new customers entered, drawing Dahlia's attention away. With a nod goodbye, he stepped out into the freshly washed street.

Walking back to his new office, Ezra pondered the strange coincidence of hearing about The Starlight Wanderers twice in the span of an hour after years of not thinking about them at all. The collector's interest in a specific pressing with a message in the "dead wax"—the silent groove between the end of the music and the label. Mrs. Abbott's obvious tension when discussing the band. The photograph of Aria with those familiar eyes.

As he climbed the stairs to his new space, keys jingling in his hand, Ezra felt a familiar tingle at the base of his skull, the same sensation that had guided him through his most successful corporate investigations—the quiet certainty that disconnected pieces were beginning to form a pattern only he could see.

He'd come back to Covenridge for a fresh start, not expecting to find anything more compelling than lost pets and unfaithful spouses. But standing in his empty office, watching the late afternoon sun glint off the wet streets below, Ezra had the distinct feeling that Covenridge had been waiting for him—or someone like him—to start asking the right questions about its musical past.

He set his book on the windowsill and made a mental note to buy a cork board tomorrow. From his messenger bag, he pulled a leather-bound notebook and began to sketch a rough map of Covenridge, marking the locations he'd visited today. In the margin, he wrote in his precise handwriting: "The Starlight Wanderers – dead wax messages – Aria – Maxwell – Mrs. Abbott." He drew connecting lines between the names, creating a constellation of relationships to be defined. The vertical line appeared between his brows as he concentrated.

He had a feeling he might need a complete case notebook sooner rather than later.

Ezra stood back and surveyed his newly furnished office with a critical eye. The solid oak desk—purchased used from a closing law firm in the next town over—dominated the space. He'd positioned it to face the door, leaving enough room for two client chairs across from it. The filing cabinet in the corner still smelled of fresh paint from where he'd touched up its scratches. A simple couch along the wall completed the essential furnishings.

"Not exactly the offices of Pinkerton," he muttered, stepping to the window that overlooked Main Street.

Three days had passed since his return to Covenridge. The morning sun cast long shadows across the street below, where Harold Hargrove was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his hardware store with methodical strokes. A creature of habit, that man—Ezra had already noted Hargrove's precise routine: unlock at 7:45 am, sweep at 8:00 am, first coffee break at 10:30 am.

The cork board he'd purchased hung on the wall opposite his desk. Currently empty except for his business license and PI credentials, it awaited the pins, photos, and string that would connect the dots of whatever cases might come his way. If any came his way.

The bell downstairs chimed as a customer entered Hargrove's store. Ezra checked his watch—8:15 am. He'd been officially open for business for forty-five minutes, and Main Street had been awake for about as long. The sandwich board sign he'd placed at the bottom of the stairs announced "Patel Investigations" in neat block letters, with "Lost Items • Missing Persons • Background Checks" listed underneath. Now all he needed was a client.

His cell phone vibrated against the desk. The screen displayed one bar of service—a Covenridge miracle. The text message from his former employer in Seattle read: "Stafford asking again if you'd reconsider. Position still open. Call me."

Ezra swiped the notification away. Corporate security had paid well, but the moral compromises had accumulated until he couldn't ignore them. Protecting pharmaceutical executives from their own ethical violations wasn't what he'd envisioned when he'd earned his criminal justice degree.

A creak on the stairs pulled his attention back to the present. Hesitant footsteps approached, followed by a timid knock.

"Come in," Ezra called, straightening his posture.

The door opened to reveal an elderly woman. She stood perhaps five feet tall, her silver hair neatly pinned back, wearing a floral blouse tucked into pressed slacks. She clutched a leather handbag with both hands, eyes darting nervously around the office.

"Mr. Patel?" she asked, her voice surprisingly strong for her small frame.

"That's me. Please, come in and have a seat." Ezra gestured to one of the chairs facing his desk.

She stepped forward, carefully closing the door behind her. "I'm Edith Laurence. I live over on Pine Street. Mrs. Abbott suggested I might speak with you about a... situation."

"Mrs. Abbott sent you?" Ezra tried to keep the surprise from his voice. A referral already—and from a woman who'd seen him for less than thirty minutes after a fourteen-year absence.

"Yes." Mrs. Laurence settled into the chair, placing her handbag precisely on her lap. "She said you specialize in finding things that are lost."

"That's right." Ezra sat across from her, notebook at the ready. "What have you lost, Mrs. Laurence?"

"My cat," she said, her chin lifting slightly as if anticipating ridicule. "Wordsworth. He's been missing for three days."

Ezra nodded, keeping his expression neutral while his heart sank. His first case—a missing cat. Not exactly the complex mystery he'd hoped would establish his reputation.

"I know it seems silly," Mrs. Laurence continued, misreading his silence. "But Wordsworth isn't just any cat. He's been my companion for twelve years, since my Herbert passed. And he's never disappeared like this before."

"It's not silly at all," Ezra replied, leaning forward. "Companions are irreplaceable. Tell me about Wordsworth's habits."

Relief washed over her face. "He's an indoor cat mostly, but I let him out in the mornings. He usually returns by noon for his lunch. Very punctual, Wordsworth. Tuesday morning, he went out as usual but never came back." She reached into her purse and produced a photograph. "This is him."

Ezra accepted the photo of a large, orange tabby with remarkable green eyes and a torn left ear. "Distinctive looking fellow. Any medical conditions I should know about?"

"He's on thyroid medication—pills I hide in his food twice daily. He's due for his next dose today." Worry creased her forehead. "That's why this is so urgent."

Ezra was already making notes. "When was the last time he missed a dose?"

"Never. That's why I'm concerned someone may have..." She trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

"You think someone took him?"

Mrs. Laurence twisted her wedding ring. "The Henderson boys two doors down have never liked him. Said he dug in their vegetable garden. And there's been talk of animal research at the college in Westin."

Ezra suppressed a smile at the leap from neighborhood boys to scientific experimentation. "Let's start with the basics. What's Wordsworth's territory? How far does he typically roam?"

For the next twenty minutes, Ezra took detailed notes as Mrs. Laurence described Wordsworth's usual haunts, favorite hiding spots, and the neighbors who either welcomed or shooed away the cat. His questions were thorough, professional—the same approach he would have taken for a missing person.

"I know my rates were posted downstairs," Ezra said finally, "but given this is a time-sensitive missing pet case, I'll charge a flat fee." He named a modest sum that made Mrs. Laurence's shoulders relax visibly.

"When can you start looking?" she asked.

"Right now." Ezra stood, tucking his notebook into his jacket pocket. "I'll need to see your home and the surrounding area."

"Oh! Of course." She seemed surprised by his immediacy. "I can show you right away."

As they descended the stairs together, Harold Hargrove looked up from helping a customer. His eyebrows rose at the sight of Ezra with Mrs. Laurence.

"Morning, Edith," Hargrove called. "Everything alright?"

"Mr. Patel is helping me find Wordsworth," she replied with dignity.

"Is he now?" Hargrove's eyes met Ezra's, amusement crinkling their corners. "Well, good luck with that. That cat's got more hidey-holes than a bank has dollars."

"You've seen Wordsworth recently?" Ezra asked, immediately alert.

"Sure, night before last. Crossing through my backyard heading toward the creek. Thought nothing of it—that cat roams all over."

Ezra pulled out his notebook again. "Which direction along the creek?"

"Downstream, toward the old mill foundation." Hargrove turned back to his customer. "Hope you find him, Edith. Town wouldn't be the same without that orange menace causing trouble."

Outside, Ezra paused. "Mrs. Laurence, do you mind if we walk to your house? I'd like to observe the route."

"Not at all. It's only three blocks."

As they walked, Ezra noted how Mrs. Laurence greeted nearly everyone they passed. Covenridge's social networks in action—everyone connected by proximity and shared history. He'd forgotten how that felt.

Mrs. Laurence's home was a well-maintained Craftsman with a wraparound porch. Inside, evidence of Wordsworth was everywhere: a cat bed by the window, toys scattered across the otherwise immaculate living room, and a scratching post beside an antique reading chair.

"May I see where he usually exits the house?" Ezra asked.

She led him to the kitchen and a small cat door installed in the back entrance. Outside stretched a modest backyard with meticulous garden beds.

"I'll need to examine the yard perimeter," Ezra said, already scanning the fence line.

"Of course. I'll make some tea while you look around."

For the next hour, Ezra methodically surveyed the property, making notes and taking photographs with his phone. He measured the gap under the back gate where a cat could slip through, documented paw prints in a muddy patch by the compost bin, and cataloged nearby trees a cat might climb.

Back inside, over tea and homemade cookies, Ezra created a detailed map of Wordsworth's known territory based on Mrs. Laurence's information and his observations.

"What neighbors should I speak with first?" he asked.

"Mrs. Pelham across the street notices everything. And the Hendersons, though they won't be pleased." She hesitated. "You're taking this very seriously."

"It's my job," Ezra replied simply. "Every investigation deserves thoroughness, whether it's a corporate embezzlement case or a missing family member—which, from what I can see, Wordsworth clearly is."

Mrs. Laurence's eyes glistened. "Mrs. Abbott was right about you."

The unexpected comment caught Ezra off-guard. "What did she say?"

"That you see what others overlook." Mrs. Laurence smiled. "And that you were too good for that security firm in Seattle."

Ezra cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the personal assessment. "I should continue my canvass of the neighborhood. Would you mind if I take this map with me?"

"Take whatever you need." She walked him to the door. "You'll call as soon as you find anything?"

"The moment I know something," he promised.

The afternoon passed in a systematic grid search of the neighborhood. Ezra interviewed seven neighbors, including a reluctant conversation with the Henderson boys, who swore they hadn't seen "that garden-wrecking fur ball" in weeks. Mrs. Pelham across the street proved more helpful, confirming she'd seen Wordsworth heading toward the creek two days ago—corroborating Hargrove's sighting.

The creek path took Ezra past the back boundaries of several properties toward the abandoned mill foundation Hargrove had mentioned. The structure was little more than stone walls now, with nature reclaiming the site. Perfect refuge for a cat, especially one seeking shelter from the unseasonal cold snap that had hit the night Wordsworth disappeared.

Ezra circled the foundation carefully, noting several small openings where a cat could enter. The third opening revealed fresh paw prints in the damp earth. He crouched down, taking a photo with his phone and comparing the size to his notes from Mrs. Laurence's yard. A match.

"Wordsworth?" he called softly, shining his flashlight into the dark space. A faint rustling sound answered him.

Getting on his hands and knees, Ezra peered into the opening. Two green eyes reflected his flashlight beam, accompanied by an indignant meow.

"There you are," Ezra said. "Come on out? Your person is worried sick."

The cat, recognizable from the photo despite his now-dirty fur, made no move to exit.

Ezra sighed and pulled a small packet from his pocket—a treat Mrs. Laurence had given him "just in case." He placed it just inside the opening. After a moment's hesitation, Wordsworth crept forward.

"That's it," Ezra encouraged. "Just a little closer."

When the cat was within reach, Ezra gently but firmly grasped him by the scruff. Wordsworth protested with a yowl but allowed himself to be extracted from the foundation. Once out, Ezra examined him quickly—dirty but apparently uninjured, though notably thinner than in his photograph.

"Let's get you home," Ezra said, tucking the cat securely against his chest. Wordsworth settled with surprising compliance, perhaps too tired from his adventure to resist.

The walk back to Mrs. Laurence's house took twenty minutes. When she opened the door to his knock, her expression transformed from anticipation to joy.

"Wordsworth!" she cried, reaching for the cat, who immediately began purring at the sound of her voice. "Oh, thank heavens!"

Inside, as Mrs. Laurence fussed over her returned companion, Ezra explained where and how he'd found him.

"I believe he got trapped when exploring the mill foundation," Ezra concluded. "The entrance was easy to get into but harder to exit. Based on his condition, he probably couldn't find his way out and was there for most of the time he was missing."

"My poor boy," Mrs. Laurence murmured, stroking the cat who was now devouring a bowl of food. "I never thought to look at the old mill. It's outside his usual territory."

"Hargrove's sighting was crucial," Ezra admitted. "And your detailed knowledge of Wordsworth's habits made the search much more efficient."

"Well, I can't thank you enough." Mrs. Laurence disappeared briefly, returning with an envelope. "Your fee, as agreed. And a little extra for finding him so quickly."

Ezra accepted the envelope with a nod. His first payment as a Covenridge PI—for finding a cat. Not exactly the career milestone he'd imagined, but oddly satisfying nonetheless.

"If you need anything else, you know where to find me," he said, rising to leave.

"I'll be sure to tell everyone who asks about your excellent work," Mrs. Laurence promised, walking him to the door. "Word travels fast in Covenridge."

"So I remember," Ezra replied with a small smile.

It was nearly 7:00 pm when Ezra returned to his apartment above the hardware store. The modest payment from Mrs. Laurence covered less than a day's expenses, but it was a start. More importantly, it was a demonstration of his methods—and in a town like Covenridge, that demonstration would travel through social networks faster than any advertisement.

After a simple dinner from his limited groceries, Ezra sat at his kitchen table updating his case notes. Professional habits died hard—every case deserved proper documentation, even a missing cat. He labeled a fresh folder: "Laurence, W. (Feline) - RESOLVED" and filed it in his cabinet.

Exhaustion should have followed. Instead, as midnight approached, Ezra found himself wide awake, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. The unfamiliar creaks of the old building kept startling him to alertness just as he began to drift off. The bed felt wrong—too soft after years on his firm mattress in Seattle. The air smelled different—pine and mountain dust instead of the city's damp concrete.

At 1:15 am, he gave up. Wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, he moved to the small armchair by the window and gazed out at Main Street. Covenridge at night was impossibly dark compared to Seattle, with only occasional streetlights creating pools of yellow illumination. The hardware store's sign cast a faint red glow on the sidewalk below.

Ezra reached for the small radio he'd unpacked earlier, tuning it until he found a clear signal: WCVR, Covenridge's community station. At this hour, it was playing an eclectic mix of obscure tracks with minimal DJ interruption—perfect background for his restless thoughts.

"This is WCVR's Midnight Needle Drops," a low, female voice announced after a song ended. "Tonight we're exploring forgotten B-sides and deep cuts from the valley's own recording history. Up next, a track that never made it onto any official Starlight Wanderers album—'Whispered Margins,' recorded at Maxwell's riverside studio during the 'Midnight Reverberations' sessions. Only fifty test pressings were ever made."

The song began with a single guitar playing a haunting progression, soon joined by a female voice so clear and pure it made Ezra sit up straighter. Aria's voice, he presumed, though he'd never heard it before. The lyrics spoke of hidden messages and words written in invisible ink, of truths concealed between the lines of official stories.

Ezra closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him. There was something about the recording quality—an immersive depth that made it sound like the singer was in the room with him. The song built to a crescendo before falling away to just voice and guitar again, finally fading into a silence so profound it seemed deliberate, a space left for contemplation.

"That was Aria and Maxwell Richards," the DJ continued softly, as if reluctant to break the song's spell. "Recorded in 1989, just months before Aria's disappearance at Singer's Fall. If you're just joining us, this is 'Needle Drops' on WCVR. I'm Jenna, keeping you company until dawn."

Ezra opened his eyes, staring out at the dark street below. Why had he really come back to Covenridge? The reasons he'd given himself—a fresh start, independence from corporate compromise, lower cost of living—were true but incomplete.

The truth was more complicated. Since his parents' death, he'd felt unanchored, drifting through his Seattle life with nothing truly tethering him there. Covenridge represented something he couldn't quite name—continuity, perhaps, or the chance to reconnect with a self he'd left behind when he departed at eighteen, eager to escape small-town limitations.

"You're listening to WCVR, where the valley's voices echo," the DJ murmured. "Our next track takes us back to Maxwell's early days, before The Starlight Wanderers formed..."

Ezra's thoughts drifted as another song began. Finding Wordsworth today had felt good—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. For a few hours, he'd been completely focused, the methodical process of investigation pulling him fully into the present moment. That sensation had been increasingly rare in Seattle, where each case began to feel like the last, solving problems for people who created most of their own difficulties.

Tomorrow, he'd begin building his business in earnest—dropping off cards at local businesses, perhaps taking out a small ad in the weekly paper. He'd need to establish relationships with the town's influential figures, people whose referrals could bring in more substantial cases than missing pets.

And perhaps, when he had a moment, he might look into The Starlight Wanderers' story. The band's presence seemed to linger in Covenridge like a ghost—in Mrs. Abbott's tense response to the collector, in Dahlia's reverent tone when speaking of Aria, in the late-night radio playlist. A tragic local legend, certainly, but was there something more?

The radio played on, and eventually Ezra's eyes grew heavy. He didn't make it back to bed, instead falling asleep in the armchair as the DJ's soothing voice introduced another forgotten track from Covenridge's musical past. His last conscious thought was a question: In a town where sound found home, what other voices might be waiting to be heard?

Two days after the triumphant return of Wordsworth, Ezra was organizing business cards on his desk when his cell phone vibrated. One bar of service—just enough to receive a text message from an unknown local number:

"If you're free this evening, I'd like to show you something interesting. Resonant Pages, 8:00 pm. —Mrs. Abbott"

Ezra read the message twice. The formal tone matched the bookstore owner's manner, but the invitation itself was unexpected. He typed back:

"I'll be there. Can I bring anything?"

The reply came quickly: "Just curiosity."

At 7:55 pm, Main Street had mostly shut down for the evening. The hardware store closed at 6:00 pm, the post office even earlier. Only Dahlia's coffee shop showed signs of life, warm light spilling onto the sidewalk as a few customers lingered over evening drinks. The bookstore windows were dark except for a single lamp visible in the back room.

Ezra knocked on the front door. A moment later, Mrs. Abbott appeared, silhouetted against the soft light behind her. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.

"Right on time," she said, stepping aside to let him in. "I appreciate punctuality."

"Military father," Ezra replied. "Being late wasn't an option growing up."

Mrs. Abbott locked the door behind him. The bookstore felt different after hours—more intimate, the shelves casting long shadows across the floor. The familiar lavender scent mingled with something new: the nutty aroma of fresh coffee.

"This way," she said, leading him past the silent checkout counter toward the back of the store. "I made coffee. I remember you took it black."

"You remember how I took my coffee fourteen years ago?"

She glanced back at him. "You spent every Saturday morning in that corner chair with the same order for nearly a decade. Some things stick."

The back room of Resonant Pages was a space Ezra had never entered as a teenage customer. It was smaller than he expected, with a worn leather sofa, two armchairs, and a low wooden table. Bookshelves lined the walls here too, but these looked different—leather-bound volumes and photo albums rather than the retail stock up front.

What caught his eye, however, was the record player set up in the corner—not a modern reproduction but a genuine vintage console, its wooden cabinet glowing warmly under careful polishing.

"Please, sit," Mrs. Abbott gestured to one of the armchairs as she poured coffee from a French press into two mugs. "I hear you found Edith's cat."

"Word travels fast," Ezra said, accepting the offered cup.

"Edith told the ladies at her church, who told half the town by noon." Mrs. Abbott settled into the chair opposite him. "She was quite impressed with your thoroughness. Said you treated it like a 'real investigation.'"

"Every case deserves attention to detail." He sipped his coffee. "Is that why I'm here? More missing pets?"

Mrs. Abbott smiled slightly. "No. You're here because you noticed things in my store that others overlook. Like how the books are organized."

"By 'emotional resonance,' you said."

"Yes. Most customers assume it's random—eccentric old woman can't be bothered with alphabetization." She set her cup down. "But you were different, even as a boy. You'd return books exactly where you found them, not where convention said they belonged."

Ezra remembered doing exactly that, sensing some order he couldn't quite articulate but felt compelled to respect.

"I've been curating this collection for nearly thirty years," Mrs. Abbott continued, gesturing to the surrounding shelves. "Books find their proper homes with people who need them. My system just...facilitates those connections."

"Like matching personalities to genres?"

"More complex than that. Two books might create entirely different emotional responses but still belong beside each other." She studied him. "But you're not here to discuss my cataloging eccentricities."

Mrs. Abbott rose and moved to the record console. "What do you know about vinyl records, Ezra?"

"Not much," he admitted. "They preceded my generation."

"And now they're fashionable again." She opened a cabinet beneath the player, revealing rows of albums in protective sleeves. "Vinyl never truly died in Covenridge. We understood what was lost when digital took over."

Her fingers moved across the record spines with practiced familiarity until she selected one, handling it with reverence. "People think they're buying music when they download files, but they're just renting access to sound. Vinyl is different. It's physical memory—grooves carved into matter that can be read centuries from now, even after digital formats become obsolete."

She removed a record from its sleeve with careful hands, her movements deliberate as she placed it on the turntable. "Have you ever noticed how vinyl collectors examine records before playing them? They check for scratches, warping, pressing quality. The medium matters as much as the music."

"Like books versus e-readers," Ezra suggested.

"Precisely." Mrs. Abbott smiled approvingly. "Though vinyl has something even books don't—the dead wax."

"I heard someone mention that in your store the other day. The collector looking for a specific pressing."

Something flickered across Mrs. Abbott's face—recognition, perhaps concern. "Mr. Keller. Yes." She traced a finger near the center of the record. "The dead wax is this space between where the music ends and the label begins. Most people think it's just empty space, but sometimes it contains messages—etched by hand into the master before pressing."

"What kind of messages?"

"Matrix numbers, technical information, sometimes jokes or personal notes from the engineers. Occasionally," she paused, "something more significant."

Mrs. Abbott lowered the needle onto the spinning record with surgical precision. The speakers hissed briefly with surface noise before music filled the room—guitar first, then other instruments, finally a female voice that Ezra recognized from the late-night radio program. Aria's voice.

"This is 'Midnight Reverberations.' Final album by The Starlight Wanderers, recorded at Maxwell's riverside studio in 1990," Mrs. Abbott said, her voice taking on a different quality—softer, more intimate. "Aria disappeared two weeks after its completion."

Ezra listened, struck by the clarity of the recording and the emotional force of the vocals. The music seemed to transform the small room, creating a space where time behaved differently.

"The sound is extraordinary," he said finally.

"Maxwell was a technical genius. He could capture things other producers couldn't—room resonance, emotional texture." Mrs. Abbott's eyes remained fixed on the spinning vinyl. "This album was pressed in several small batches rather than one large run. Each batch has certain... characteristics."

"Different messages in the dead wax?"

She glanced at him sharply. "You catch on quickly."

"That's what the collector was after. A specific pressing with a specific message."

Mrs. Abbott nodded, her attention returning to the record. "This is one of the original test pressings. Only thirty were made before the official release."

They sat in silence as the music played through, Ezra watching Mrs. Abbott as much as listening to the album. Her face was difficult to read, but her body language spoke of tension building with each track. By the final song, her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.

When the last note faded, she didn't move to lift the needle. Instead, she waited, eyes fixed on the spinning black disc as the arm tracked through the silent space between the final groove and the label.

Nothing but soft surface noise emerged from the speakers.

Mrs. Abbott's shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. Then, with practiced composure, she lifted the needle and stopped the turntable.

"Is something wrong?" Ezra asked.

"No." The word came too quickly. "It's just... sometimes memory plays tricks. I thought this pressing contained something it apparently doesn't."

Ezra remained silent, allowing the space for her to continue or not. It was an interviewing technique he'd learned early—people fill silence when they're uncertain.

She carefully returned the record to its sleeve. "The dead wax on certain pressings contained messages—personal notes, really. This particular copy once had one, but it seems to have been... removed."

"Removed? How is that possible?"

"With the right equipment, one can adjust the surface." Her fingers traced the empty space between the grooves and label. "Carefully buff out what was there. It leaves a slightly smoother texture than the surrounding area."

"So someone deliberately erased a message," Ezra said. "That suggests it contained something worth hiding."

Mrs. Abbott's eyes met his. "Or something worth protecting."

She rose abruptly, moving to a shelf behind her desk. "Would you like to see something? Since you're interested in The Starlight Wanderers."

"Of course."

She returned with a faded photograph in a simple wooden frame. "This was taken at Maxwell's studio, summer of 1988. Before their final album."

Ezra accepted the frame carefully. The photograph showed a group of people arranged informally outside a rustic cottage. He recognized a younger Mrs. Abbott immediately, her then-dark hair falling past her shoulders, arm around a slender young woman with flowing hair and striking eyes. Beside them stood a tall man with a guitar, his posture suggesting both confidence and distance.

"That's Aria," Mrs. Abbott said, pointing to the young woman. "Lead singer. And Maxwell Richards, founder and producer."

Ezra studied the image, noting the resemblance between the young woman and Mrs. Abbott—similar features, identical eyes. He looked up, finding those same eyes watching him carefully.

"She was very young," he observed.

"Eighteen when this was taken. Twenty when she died." Mrs. Abbott reclaimed the photograph, her fingers lingering on the glass. "Jumped into the river at Singer's Fall, according to official reports. They never recovered her body."

"You knew her well?"

Something complex passed across Mrs. Abbott's face—grief, perhaps, but something more. "Yes. Very well. I was part of the band's... entourage, you might say. Helped with tour arrangements, documentation."

Ezra's investigative instincts noted the careful phrasing, the selective disclosure. "The book organization system—it relates to the band somehow, doesn't it?"

Mrs. Abbott looked surprised, then appreciative. "Perceptive. Yes, in a way. Books find connections with each other based on emotional signatures rather than subject matter. Like songs on an album—they create meaning through juxtaposition." She paused. "The system emerged after Aria died. A way of preserving... patterns that might otherwise be lost."

"And the dead wax messages—they were meaningful to you?"

"They were meaningful to those who knew where to look," she replied, her tone shifting toward formality again. "Aria understood that some truths belong in margins, not in the groove where everyone can hear them."

Ezra sensed the conversation reaching its boundaries. Mrs. Abbott had invited him for a purpose, shared what she felt necessary, but was now signaling conclusion.

"Thank you for showing me this," he said, rising from his chair. "I appreciate you sharing something so personal."

"You're welcome." She walked him toward the front of the store. "I thought you might find it interesting, given your new profession. Covenridge has layers, Ezra. Some visible, others hidden in plain sight."

At the door, Ezra paused. "The collector who wanted that specific pressing—was he looking for the dead wax message?"

"Yes. Though I doubt he understands its significance." Mrs. Abbott's hand rested on the lock. "People collect pieces of the past without grasping the whole. Like owning a single puzzle piece and thinking you see the complete picture."

"And you have the complete picture?"

"No one does. Not anymore." She unlocked the door. "But some of us have more pieces than others."

Outside, Main Street was quiet except for the distant sound of someone playing guitar on Dahlia's coffee shop patio. The night air carried the scent of pine and woodsmoke.

"Mrs. Abbott," Ezra said before the door closed, "did you invite me tonight because you want me to find something?"

She considered him for a long moment. "I invited you because you've always been good at seeing connections others miss. Whether that leads to finding anything... that's not for me to determine."

As Ezra walked back to his apartment, he replayed the evening in his mind. The bookstore's organization system suddenly made more sense—not just eccentric cataloging but a physical manifestation of emotional memories, perhaps specifically related to The Starlight Wanderers and Aria.

In his apartment, Ezra switched on his desk lamp and opened his laptop. For the next hour, he searched online for information about The Starlight Wanderers, hampered by Covenridge's sporadic internet connection. What he found was fragmentary—a cult band with a small but devoted following, three albums recorded between 1987 and 1990, dissolved after their lead singer's apparent suicide.

Most articles mentioned Maxwell Richards as founder, guitarist, and producer, credited with creating their distinctive sound at his "custom-built riverside studio." Aria was typically described as "enigmatic" and "hauntingly talented," with minimal biographical information.

One music blog post caught his attention: "The Reverberations Phenomenon: How Maxwell's Riverside Sessions Changed Recording." The article described Maxwell's innovative techniques for capturing natural acoustics, specifically his use of the Covenridge River's sound as part of the recording environment.

Ezra remembered the coffee at Dahlia's shop: "Maxwell's Melody." The connection between the coffee name and the riverside studio where the band recorded seemed significant.

He opened a new document on his laptop and began making notes—questions, observations, connections. Why had someone deliberately removed a message from Mrs. Abbott's vinyl pressing? What significance did the dead wax messages hold? Why did Mrs. Abbott show him these things now?

The cork board on his wall remained empty except for his credentials. Ezra stared at it, envisioning strings connecting photographs, names, locations. A map taking shape.

He had no client, no case, no fee—just curiosity and a growing sense that Covenridge held secrets worth uncovering. Mrs. Abbott had shown him puzzle pieces tonight, but the full picture remained elusive.

Outside his window, a light rain began to fall, drumming gently on the rooftop. In the distance, the community radio station played something low and melancholic that carried through the night air. Ezra turned back to his notes, adding one more question at the bottom of the page:

Who was Aria to Mrs. Abbott?

The resemblance in the photograph had been striking—not just physical features but something in their bearing, their presence. The way Mrs. Abbott had touched the image suggested a connection far deeper than band documentarian.

Ezra closed his laptop. Whatever had happened in Covenridge thirty years ago still echoed in the present—in Mrs. Abbott's bookstore organization, in the collectors seeking specific vinyl pressings, in the music that filled the night airwaves.

Tomorrow he would continue building his legitimate PI business, but now he had a secondary investigation—unofficial but increasingly compelling. If vinyl records preserved physical memory in their grooves, what other memories might Covenridge be holding in its landscapes, its buildings, its residents?

He glanced at his phone—11:45 pm. Too late to make more inquiries tonight, but tomorrow he would begin mapping this new territory, following the grooves wherever they led.

The morning sun had barely crested the eastern ridge when Ezra's office door swung open. The man who entered wore a gray business suit that looked distinctly out of place among Covenridge's typical casual attire. His tightly knotted tie and polished shoes suggested someone more accustomed to city boardrooms than mountain town businesses.

"Are you Patel?" he asked, remaining near the doorway as if prepared for a quick exit.

Ezra nodded, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. "That's me. Please, have a seat, Mr.—"

"Daniels. Robert Daniels." The man closed the door before sitting, his posture stiff. "I understand you're discreet."

"Client confidentiality is fundamental to my business," Ezra replied, retrieving a notepad from his desk drawer. "How can I help you, Mr. Daniels?"

The man's hands flexed nervously on his knees. "I need surveillance. On my wife."

Ezra kept his expression neutral despite the internal sigh. His first legitimate case would be the PI staple—suspected infidelity. Not exactly the complex mystery he'd hoped for, but it would pay the rent.

"I see. What led you to seek my services?"

"Business trips that don't align with her company calendar. Late nights. Text messages she deletes immediately." Daniels loosened his tie slightly. "Marcia manages the Westin branch of Mountain Valley Credit Union. We've been married fifteen years."

"And you believe she's seeing someone else."

"I need to know," Daniels said, his voice tight. "For certain. Before I⁠—"

"I understand," Ezra interrupted gently. "Let's discuss specifics. I'll need her schedule, vehicle information, photographs, and your detailed suspicions regarding timing and potential locations."

For the next thirty minutes, Ezra took meticulous notes while Daniels provided information with the strained precision of a man who'd been cataloging suspicious behaviors for months. When they finally discussed fees, Daniels didn't blink at the figure, producing a check for the retainer without hesitation.

"How soon can you start?" he asked, rising from his chair.

"Today. I'll need three to five days of observation to establish patterns before drawing any conclusions."

"That's acceptable." Daniels handed over a manila envelope containing photographs and his wife's known schedule. "Call me when you have something concrete."

After Daniels left, Ezra examined the check—enough to cover his rent and utilities for the month with some left over. A practical success, yet he felt oddly deflated. He carefully labeled a new folder: "Daniels, R. - ACTIVE" and placed it in his filing cabinet.

His phone vibrated with a text message. Miraculous reception again.

"Found what you need at the library. Tuesday research tables free after 10:00. Ask for Caroline. —Mrs. Abbott"

Ezra checked his watch—8:45 am. He had time to visit the library before beginning surveillance on Marcia Daniels, whose lunch break coincided with a standing appointment across town at noon.

The Covenridge Public Library occupied a converted Victorian home on Maple Street, its wraparound porch lined with rocking chairs that invited outdoor reading during warmer months. Inside, original hardwood floors creaked welcomingly beneath Ezra's feet as he approached the main desk.

"I'm looking for Caroline," he said to the gray-haired woman organizing return slips.

She glanced up, recognition flickering in her eyes. "You must be Ezra Patel. Mrs. Abbott called ahead." She extended her hand. "Caroline Fletcher. I'm the head librarian and local history curator."

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fletcher."

"It's Mrs., actually, though Mr. Fletcher has been gone nearly twenty years now." She emerged from behind the desk. "Mrs. Abbott mentioned you were interested in The Starlight Wanderers."

"That's right."

Caroline nodded briskly. "Follow me. We keep the local history collection in the reading room."

She led him through the main library to a smaller room toward the back. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three walls, while the fourth featured tall windows overlooking a garden. Two large oak tables occupied the center space.

"This was originally the home's dining room," Caroline explained, approaching a locked cabinet beneath the windows. "We keep our more valuable materials secured. Newspaper archives, historical records, items of special local significance."

Her keys jingled as she unlocked the cabinet, revealing neatly labeled boxes. She selected one marked "Local Arts & Music 1980-1999" and placed it on the nearest table.

"These aren't technically available for general circulation," she said, opening the box. "But Mrs. Abbott indicated your research had her endorsement."

Ezra noted the implicit social currency Mrs. Abbott's recommendation carried. "I appreciate your assistance."

"There's another box specifically on The Starlight Wanderers and related matters." Caroline hesitated. "Mrs. Abbott suggested starting with the general materials first."

"She's curating my research path," Ezra observed with a small smile.

"She tends to have reasons for her recommendations." Caroline arranged the materials on the table. "I'll be at the front desk if you need anything. The microfiche reader is in the corner if you want to check newspaper archives."

Left alone with the box, Ezra began methodically examining its contents. Local arts program booklets, music festival flyers, and newspaper clippings painted a picture of Covenridge's surprisingly vibrant cultural scene during the 1980s. He created a timeline on his notepad, tracking the emergence of The Starlight Wanderers from their first mention in 1985—a small announcement about a performance at the Starlight Music Hall.

Two hours later, he had assembled a clearer picture. The band had formed around Maxwell Richards, who had established his recording studio by the river in the late 1970s. Initially recording folk and acoustic artists drawn to the valley's natural acoustics, Maxwell gradually assembled musicians for his own project, which evolved into The Starlight Wanderers.

Aria joined as lead vocalist in 1987, though Ezra noted the sparse biographical information about her. Most articles simply described her as "the haunting voice of The Starlight Wanderers" without background details. The band released three albums between 1987 and 1990, gaining a cult following among independent music fans but never achieving mainstream success.

What caught Ezra's attention most was the newspaper coverage of Aria's death. The Covenridge Weekly had run a front-page story in October 1990:

TRAGEDY AT SINGER'S FALL Local Musician Presumed Dead After Jump

The article reported that Aria (no last name mentioned) had apparently jumped into the Covenridge River at the dangerous rapids known as Singer's Fall. According to the sole witness, Maxwell Richards, she had been "emotionally distressed" following their final recording session. Despite extensive search efforts, her body was never recovered, with authorities speculating it had been carried downstream through the canyon.

The coroner's ruling of suicide seemed based primarily on Maxwell's testimony. Ezra noted this with professional skepticism—a death declaration without a body, based on a single witness account.

Subsequent articles tracked the band's dissolution and the growing cult status of their music, particularly after Aria's death. Several pieces mentioned the "pilgrimage" of fans to Singer's Fall, leaving tributes on the anniversary of her disappearance.

Ezra checked his watch—11:30 am. He needed to leave for his surveillance assignment. As he organized the materials for return, Caroline reappeared.

"Find what you needed?" she asked.

"It's a start. I may need to return for that second box."

"Of course." She hesitated, then added, "You should know that not everything about The Starlight Wanderers made it into official records. This town keeps certain stories in different archives."

"What other archives would those be?"

Caroline smiled faintly. "The vinyl kind. Have you visited The Turntable yet?"

"The record store? No."

"You might find it illuminating." She carefully returned the materials to their box. "Cecil knows more about The Starlight Wanderers' recordings than anyone except Maxwell himself."

"Thank you for the suggestion."

Outside, Ezra started his car and headed toward the credit union branch in Westin where Marcia Daniels worked. The infidelity case required his professional attention, regardless of his growing interest in decades-old musical mysteries.

For the next several hours, Ezra conducted textbook surveillance—establishing observation points, documenting Marcia Daniels' movements with timestamp photographs, and maintaining detailed notes. She followed her expected schedule, meeting a silver-haired man at a local restaurant for what appeared to be a business lunch before returning to the credit union.

By 5:30 pm, when she drove directly home, Ezra had established his baseline for her routine. Nothing immediately suspicious, though the lunch companion warranted further investigation. He noted the man's license plate before ending his observation for the day.

Instead of returning directly to Covenridge, Ezra found himself driving to Cedar Street, where The Turntable occupied a narrow storefront between a bakery and a local art gallery. Its window display featured vintage audio equipment surrounding a promotional poster for a band he didn't recognize.

A bell jingled as he entered. The store was exactly as the name suggested—a temple to vinyl culture. Records filled every available space, organized in wooden bins and on wall-mounted shelves. The air smelled of old paper, wood polish, and something faintly electrical—the warm scent of tube amplifiers, he realized, as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting.

Behind the counter, a man in his sixties with a trim white beard and round glasses looked up from a record he was carefully cleaning. His T-shirt featured an album cover Ezra didn't recognize, and a denim vest covered in music festival patches completed the look of someone who had been part of the scene for decades.

"Welcome to The Turntable," the man said. "First visit?"

"That obvious?"

"Small town, unfamiliar face." The man set aside his cleaning cloth. "Plus you've got that 'where do I start' look. I'm Cecil Morgan, owner and vinyl evangelist."

"Ezra Patel. I recently moved back to Covenridge."

"Patel... the new PI above the hardware store?"

"Word travels fast."

Cecil laughed. "That's Covenridge for you. What brings you in? Starting a collection?"

"Research, actually." Ezra approached the counter. "I'm interested in The Starlight Wanderers."

Cecil's expression shifted subtly—the change of someone deciding how much to share. "Popular interest lately. Any particular aspect?"

"I'm curious about their different pressings, especially regarding dead wax messages."

"Now that's not your typical casual inquiry." Cecil studied him more carefully. "Who pointed you my way?"

"Caroline at the library. And Mrs. Abbott mentioned your store."

The mention of Mrs. Abbott seemed to settle something for Cecil. "Alright then. Let me show you what we have."

He led Ezra to a section near the back marked "Local Artists," retrieving a protective sleeve from beneath the counter. "This is a second pressing of 'Midnight Reverberations.' Not as valuable as first pressings, but still sought after."

He carefully extracted the vinyl, handling it by its edges. "See here?" He pointed to the space between the grooves and the label. "This pressing has a partial message—'When silence speaks, listen for—' and it cuts off."

"Different pressings have different messages?" Ezra asked.

"That's what makes Starlight Wanderers records so collectible." Cecil returned the vinyl to its sleeve. "First pressing, first batch had one message. First pressing, second batch had another. Second pressing had a partial version. Third pressing had nothing at all."

"That seems unusual."

"Highly unusual. Normally all pressings from the same master would have identical dead wax, aside from maybe press numbers." Cecil leaned against the counter. "The working theory among collectors is that someone deliberately altered the message between batches."

"Is that technically possible?"

"Difficult but doable. The message is etched into the master lacquer before electroplating creates the stamper. Someone with access to the process could modify it between manufacturing runs."

Ezra considered this. "What purpose would changing the messages serve?"

"That's the million-dollar question." Cecil glanced toward the window, where the sky had darkened considerably. "Some collectors believe the messages form a complete communication when arranged correctly across different albums and pressings."

"Like a puzzle?"

"Or a hidden statement." Cecil nodded toward the gathering clouds. "You might want to wrap this up. Valley storm's forming—big one, judging by those clouds. Cell service and internet go down when it hits."

Ezra checked his watch—7:15 pm. "Before I go, do you have any first pressings of their albums?"

"Not currently. They're rare and expensive when they surface. I could put you on my notification list."

"I'd appreciate that." Ezra handed Cecil his business card. "One more question—what's known about the relationship between Mrs. Abbott and the band?"

Cecil's expression became guarded. "Mrs. Abbott was closely connected to their circle back then. Beyond that, it's not my story to tell." He glanced again at the darkening sky. "You should get going if you want to beat that storm."

Ezra didn't beat the storm. Halfway back to Covenridge, the skies opened in a torrential downpour that reduced visibility to mere feet. His cell phone's signal disappeared completely, and the radio filled with static as lightning flashed across the mountains.

By the time he reached his apartment above the hardware store, he was soaked from the brief dash from his car. The electricity flickered ominously as he changed into dry clothes.

Three minutes later, the power went out entirely.

Ezra lit the oil lamp he'd purchased as part of his emergency supplies and placed it on his desk. The warm glow created a perfect circle of light—just enough to work by. He retrieved his notebook and the folder containing his unofficial investigation notes.

With the internet connection gone and his phone useless, Ezra was forced back to analog methods. On a blank page, he began sketching connections between the key figures he'd identified: Maxwell Richards, Aria, Mrs. Abbott, the record executives mentioned in a few articles. He added locations: Maxwell's riverside studio, the Starlight Music Hall, Singer's Fall.

Questions filled the margins of his map: Why change dead wax messages between pressings? What was Mrs. Abbott's exact relationship to the band? Why was there so little biographical information about Aria?

The cork board on his wall—still empty except for his credentials—called to him. This case deserved proper visual mapping. He retrieved his materials from a drawer: pushpins, index cards, string for connecting elements.

As rain lashed against his windows and thunder echoed through the valley, Ezra began transferring his notes to the board. He wrote each name on a separate card, adding known information below. Maxwell Richards—founder, guitarist, producer, witness to Aria's death. Aria—lead singer, apparent suicide at age 20, no last name in any public record. Mrs. Abbott—connection unclear, but possesses rare pressings and intimate knowledge of the band.

He added locations, dates, album releases. As the connections grew, with red string linking related elements, Ezra stepped back to assess his work. The pattern emerging showed clear gaps—missing information about Aria's background, the nature of Mrs. Abbott's involvement, the specific content of the complete dead wax messages.

The oil lamp flickered, casting shifting shadows across the board. Ezra returned to his desk and opened the Daniels case file, forcing himself to update his surveillance notes while the details remained fresh. Professional discipline demanded attention to his paying case, regardless of the more intriguing mystery taking shape on his cork board.

Yet his eyes kept drifting back to the web of string and cards. He had no client for this investigation. No fee. No clear crime. Just questions without answers and a growing sense that Covenridge preserved its secrets as carefully as Cecil preserved his vinyl records.

A particularly loud thunderclap rattled his windows. Ezra closed the Daniels file and returned to his notes on The Starlight Wanderers. Tomorrow he would conduct his legitimate surveillance, but tonight, by lamplight, he would continue mapping the mystery that had no name but was rapidly becoming his obsession.

On a fresh index card, he wrote: "Dead Wax Messages - Purpose?" and pinned it at the center of his board.

The lamp's flame cast his shadow large against the wall as he stood before his creation, a detective's web taking shape in the storm-enforced isolation of a mountain town night. Outside, the rain continued its relentless percussion, drowning out all other sounds except the occasional rumble of thunder.

In the enforced disconnection from the digital world, Ezra felt something shift in his understanding of Covenridge. The town existed in two times simultaneously—the present moment and an uneasy past that refused to settle into history. The electrical outage merely made visible what was always true: beneath the surface of everyday life, older patterns persisted, recorded in vinyl grooves and human memory.

He added another card to his board: "Resemblance between Aria and Mrs. Abbott?" With no internet to distract him and no phone to interrupt, Ezra continued working by lamplight, alone with his questions and the steady rhythm of the rain.

Ezra's car smelled of cold coffee and stale sandwich, the inevitable aroma of surveillance work. He'd been parked across from the Mountain Valley Credit Union for three hours, documenting Marcia Daniels' comings and goings with methodical precision. Through his camera lens, he watched her emerge from the building for her lunch break, checking her watch before walking briskly toward the same restaurant where she'd met the silver-haired man the previous day.

Only this time, she wasn't meeting for lunch. She climbed into a blue sedan that pulled alongside the curb—a vehicle Ezra had already identified as belonging to Jacob Mercer, regional manager for the credit union and married father of three.

"And there it is," Ezra murmured, snapping photos as they drove away. The predictable pattern of workplace affairs—lunch meetings that expanded into longer absences, business trips that coincided with conferences neither actually attended. He'd seen it dozens of times during his corporate security days.

He followed at a discreet distance as the blue sedan traveled away from town, eventually turning onto a side road leading to the Valley View Motel. Classic. Not even original enough to find somewhere less obvious.

Ezra parked where he could observe the entrance, documenting their arrival and Mercer checking in while Marcia waited in the car. Twenty minutes of photography later, he had all the evidence Robert Daniels was paying for.

As he lowered his camera, he found himself wondering if Daniels truly wanted this confirmation or if, like many clients, he'd been hoping for reassurance that his suspicions were unfounded. The revelation of truth rarely brought the satisfaction people imagined.

With three hours before Marcia would likely return to work, Ezra decided to make his way back to Covenridge. The surveillance portion of this case was essentially complete—he had dates, times, photographs, and license plate numbers. The rest was just paperwork.

His stomach growled as he drove through downtown Covenridge. He hadn't eaten since the hastily consumed breakfast sandwich at dawn, and Dahlia's coffee shop beckoned with its warm lights and the promise of actual human interaction after hours of solitary observation.

The bell above the door announced his entrance into Brewedly Awakened. The afternoon crowd was sparse—a couple of hikers huddled over maps at one table, an elderly man reading a newspaper in the corner, and two middle-aged women deep in conversation by the window.

"The prodigal investigator returns," Dahlia called from behind the counter, her auburn braid swinging as she looked up. "Rough day? You've got that thousand-yard surveillance stare."

Ezra approached the counter, surprised by her perception. "Is it that obvious?"

"Years of reading people's coffee needs has given me certain skills." She gestured to the chalkboard menu. "You look like you need something substantial. 'Nocturne's Warmth' might do the trick—dark roast with hints of chocolate and cinnamon."

"Sounds perfect." Ezra scanned the menu's tea section, spotting what he was looking for. "And maybe 'Abbey's Pages' tea for later? That's an interesting name."

Something flickered in Dahlia's expression—recognition of his strategic inquiry. "Good choice. Lavender, chamomile, and a touch of lemon balm. Named for Mrs. Abbott, obviously."

"Obviously," Ezra agreed. "I'm guessing you know her well?"

Dahlia began preparing his coffee with practiced movements. "Everyone knows Mrs. Abbott. But few know Isadora."

"Isadora?"

"Mrs. Abbott's first name. Before she was 'Mrs. Abbott' to the town." Dahlia glanced up to gauge his reaction. "But you've figured out there's more to her than books by emotional resonance."

Ezra leaned against the counter. "She showed me some vinyl records the other night. Starlight Wanderers albums."

"Did she?" Dahlia's eyebrows rose slightly as she steamed milk. "That's interesting. She doesn't share those with just anyone."

From the table by the window, one of the women's voices rose audibly: "—completely withdrawn since the river incident. Brilliant ears, Maxwell had. Could hear things nobody else could."

"The hermit with golden ears," the other woman agreed. "Such a waste of talent."

Ezra's attention shifted toward their conversation while maintaining his dialogue with Dahlia. "I gather Mrs. Abbott had some connection to the band?"

"That's putting it mildly." Dahlia placed his coffee on the counter, her voice lowered. "Take a seat at the table near the community board. I'll bring your tea over when it's ready. We can talk more freely there."

Ezra carried his coffee to the suggested table, positioning himself where he could still overhear the women's conversation while appearing absorbed in his phone.

"—lives out by the river still, hasn't produced anything since Aria died⁠—"

"—such a tragedy, that girl had a voice like nothing I've ever⁠—"

"—Maxwell never recovered, you know. Drinking himself to death out there⁠—"

The women's voices dropped as they noticed Ezra's proximity, shifting to more mundane topics like grandchildren and church activities. The code-switching was so practiced it felt ritualized—certain topics discussed only among confirmed locals, silenced in the presence of outsiders.

Dahlia approached with a steaming mug of tea, sliding into the chair across from him. "Taking a break?"

"Between cases," Ezra replied. "I didn't expect the owner to deliver my tea personally."

"Consider it professional courtesy between information brokers." She nodded toward the women. "You caught a fragment of the Maxwell mythology. Interested?"

"Very."

"Ask me something specific. General questions get general answers in Covenridge."

Ezra considered his approach. "Who exactly is Maxwell Richards to this town?"

"Better." Dahlia traced the rim of his teacup with her finger. "Maxwell was... is... Covenridge's reluctant genius. Came here in the late seventies to record the river and never really left. Built a studio where the acoustics were perfect—natural amplification from the valley walls, water sounds that changed with the seasons."

"And now?"

"Now he's the hermit with golden ears who hasn't recorded anything commercially since Aria died. Lives in a cottage by the rapids, sees almost no one." She tilted her head, studying him. "I'm one of the few who still brings him supplies occasionally. Coffee, mainly."

Ezra took a sip of his drink. "Mrs. Abbott showed me a photograph from Maxwell's studio. She was in it, alongside Aria."

Dahlia's eyes narrowed slightly. "She must trust you more than I realized."

"Or she's testing me for something."

"Perceptive." Dahlia nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. "What else did she show you?"

"A vinyl pressing of 'Midnight Reverberations.' She was looking for a message in the dead wax that wasn't there."

Something shifted in Dahlia's expression—concern, perhaps. "The dead wax messages. So that's where this is heading."

"What can you tell me about them?"

"Depends on why you're asking." She leaned forward. "Are you investigating something official, or is this personal curiosity?"

"No client, if that's what you mean."

"Then why pursue it?"

Ezra considered his answer carefully. "Because Mrs. Abbott showed me puzzle pieces she knew I wouldn't be able to resist connecting."

Dahlia nodded as if he'd passed some test. "Fair enough. The first thing you should understand about Covenridge is that we experience audio days."

"Audio days?"

"Days when sound carries differently through the valley. Something about barometric pressure, temperature inversions, and the shape of the mountains." She gestured toward the windows. "Today's not one, but when they happen, you can sometimes hear conversations from blocks away like they're happening next to you."

"That seems... convenient for information gathering."

"It's why privacy is so valued here. And why certain conversations only happen indoors, behind closed doors." Dahlia's voice dropped lower. "These audio days often coincide with significant revelations in town. Some people think it's just atmospheric conditions. Others believe the valley... listens and sometimes speaks back."

The bell above the door chimed as a new customer entered—a man in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a flannel shirt. He nodded to Dahlia with familiar ease as he approached the counter.

"The usual, Pete?" Dahlia called.

"Please. And whatever pastry's freshest."

Dahlia excused herself to prepare his order. Ezra watched the practiced routine of a small-town business owner who knew her regulars' preferences without asking. She chatted easily with Pete about a recent town council meeting as she crafted his drink.

When she returned to Ezra's table, she carried a small plate with a blueberry scone. "On the house. You look like you haven't eaten properly today."

Ezra accepted gratefully. "You mentioned bringing supplies to Maxwell. Does that mean you know where his cottage is?"

"I do." Dahlia settled back into her chair. "Though finding it isn't easy. It's about a mile outside town, along the river. No proper road leads there—just a forest path that's deliberately difficult to navigate. Maxwell values his privacy."

"Has he always been so reclusive?"

"No." Dahlia glanced toward the windows, her expression thoughtful. "Before the incident at the river—before Aria died—he was private but not isolated. He'd come into town occasionally, attend performances at the Starlight Music Hall, even play impromptu sessions at The Turntable sometimes."

"What happened? Besides Aria's death, I mean."

"That's the question, isn't it?" Dahlia gave him a measured look. "The official story is that Maxwell witnessed Aria jump into the rapids at Singer's Fall. Tried to save her but couldn't. Her body was never recovered." She paused. "After that, he retreated completely. Stopped producing, stopped performing. The only people who see him now are me, occasionally Mrs. Abbott, and the delivery service that brings his groceries."

The bell chimed again as Pete left. Almost immediately after, another customer entered—a tall, lean man with wire-rimmed glasses and a canvas messenger bag. When he saw Dahlia sitting with Ezra, his expression darkened noticeably.

"Dahlia," he acknowledged stiffly, approaching the counter where the teenage barista had taken over. "Just black coffee, Jessie."

"Coming right up, Professor Keller."

Ezra recognized the name immediately—the collector who had been asking Mrs. Abbott about the rare Starlight Wanderers pressing. Dahlia had gone very still, her body language shifting subtly toward protective alertness.

"Professor Keller teaches music theory at Westin College," she explained quietly. "He's been researching The Starlight Wanderers for a book he's writing."

Ezra nodded, keeping his voice casual. "Interesting subject matter."

Keller's head turned sharply at this comment, his gaze fixing on Ezra with sudden intensity. He collected his coffee from Jessie before approaching their table.

"I couldn't help overhearing," he said. "You're interested in The Starlight Wanderers?"

"Just learning about local history," Ezra replied, deliberately vague.

"What specifically about the band interests you?" Keller's tone carried an edge of territorial challenge.

"I'm new in town. Well, returned after many years. Their name keeps coming up."

"It would." Keller's eyes narrowed. "They're Covenridge's claim to musical significance. Though the locals guard that history like a family secret."

Dahlia straightened in her chair. "Perhaps because outsiders tend to sensationalize tragedy for academic credibility, Professor."

The tension between them crackled almost visibly. Keller's jaw tightened.

"I'm pursuing legitimate musicological research," he said coldly. "But certain parties in town seem determined to obstruct access to primary sources."

"Perhaps those parties have good reasons," Dahlia replied, her normally warm voice cool.

Keller turned his attention back to Ezra. "If you're genuinely interested in The Starlight Wanderers, I'd suggest looking beyond the town's carefully curated mythology. There's more to that story than Covenridge wants remembered." He reached into his bag, producing a business card. "Feel free to contact me if you'd like to discuss real research rather than local folklore."

He placed the card on the table before nodding curtly and leaving the shop. The bell's cheerful chime contrasted sharply with the tension his departure left behind.

Dahlia let out a long breath. "Well, that was unpleasant."

"What's his issue?" Ezra asked, picking up the card.

"Professor Keller believes he's entitled to every scrap of information about The Starlight Wanderers because he's writing a book." Her fingers drummed lightly on the table. "He doesn't understand that some stories aren't his to tell—or at least, not his to tell in the way he wants to tell them."

"You mentioned the town marking time by cultural events rather than calendar dates," Ezra said, changing the subject slightly. "What did you mean by that?"

Dahlia's expression softened. "Listen to how people talk about when things happened here. They don't say 'Summer of 1990.' They say 'just after the final concert' or 'the year of the big flood' or 'when the Starlight Hall roof collapsed.' Our calendar is emotional and cultural, not numerical."

"And where does Aria's death fall in that calendar?"

"It's the dividing line," Dahlia said quietly. "Things happened 'before the river' or 'after the river.' It's our B.C. and A.D."

The afternoon light had begun to shift, shadows lengthening across the coffee shop floor. Dahlia glanced at the clock and stood.

"I need to check inventory before the evening rush," she said. "Your tea's growing cold."

"One more question." Ezra looked up at her. "What's your stake in all this? Why share information with me about Maxwell, about audio days?"

Dahlia considered him for a long moment. "Because Mrs. Abbott trusts you enough to show you her records. Because this town holds its secrets so tightly sometimes they fester rather than heal." She adjusted her apron. "And because some truths need witnessing from someone with both insider understanding and outsider perspective. You might be uniquely positioned for that."

After she walked away, Ezra sipped the now-lukewarm tea. It tasted exactly as Dahlia had described—lavender, chamomile, and lemon balm—but with an additional floral note he couldn't identify. He tucked Keller's business card into his pocket and checked his watch. Time to prepare his report for Robert Daniels.

Back in his office, Ezra spent an hour organizing the surveillance photos and writing a factual, dispassionate summary of Marcia Daniels' activities. He deliberately excluded judgmental language or emotional speculation—just the empirical evidence his client had paid for.

At 7:30 pm, Robert Daniels arrived for their scheduled update. Ezra watched the man's expression transform as he reviewed the photographs—hope yielding to certainty, then hardening into cold anger.

"So it's true," Daniels said finally, his voice flat. "Mercer. Of all people."

"I've documented times, locations, and provided all relevant evidence," Ezra replied, keeping his tone professional. "What you do with this information is entirely your decision."

"Decision's already made." Daniels gathered the photos into the envelope. "How much do I owe you for completing the job?"

Ezra named his fee. Daniels wrote a check without hesitation, adding a substantial amount beyond the agreed price.

"For your discretion," he explained, handing it over. "And for being thorough enough that there's no ambiguity."

After Daniels left, Ezra stared at the check. His first case was officially complete, and the payment would cover his expenses for at least two months. He should have felt satisfaction—professional validation that his PI business could succeed in Covenridge.

Instead, he found himself drawn back to the cork board where his unofficial investigation was taking shape. He added new elements from today's conversations—audio days, Maxwell's riverside cottage, the hostile reaction from Professor Keller, Dahlia's reference to Mrs. Abbott as Isadora.

The pattern was expanding, becoming more complex yet also more coherent. Something significant had happened in Covenridge thirty years ago that went beyond a talented singer's suicide. Something that connected Mrs. Abbott to Aria in ways that weren't public knowledge. Something that had transformed Maxwell from innovative producer to reclusive hermit.

Ezra studied his newly updated board. The proper next step would be to locate and catalog every available pressing of The Starlight Wanderers' albums, documenting each dead wax message to reconstruct whatever communication had been encoded there.

He glanced at the check in his hand, then back at the board.

Twenty minutes later, Ezra entered The Turntable just as Cecil was preparing to close.

"Mr. Patel," Cecil greeted him with surprise. "Back so soon?"

"I'm interested in starting a collection," Ezra said, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Specifically, Starlight Wanderers pressings. Whatever you have available, and I'd like to be notified when other versions come in."

Cecil's eyes narrowed slightly with professional assessment. "Collections like that don't come cheap. The common pressings start around eighty dollars, but the rarities go for hundreds, sometimes thousands."

"I understand." Ezra met his gaze steadily. "I just received payment for completing my first official case in Covenridge. I can think of no better investment."

A slow smile spread across Cecil's face. "Well then. Let me show you what I have in stock, and we can talk about what to watch for in the future."

As Cecil led him toward the local artists section, Ezra felt a resonant certainty that he was committing to something beyond simple record collecting. In a town where memory lived in vinyl grooves and truth hid in the spaces between notes, becoming a collector wasn't just a hobby—it was a methodology, a way to access a history that existed outside official accounts.

"This second pressing is a good starting point," Cecil said, carefully extracting an album. "Not the rarest, but it contains part of the message sequence. Notice the dead wax inscription—'When silence speaks, listen for⁠—'"

"—the voice in the margins," Ezra completed, remembering Mrs. Abbott's words.

Cecil looked at him with newfound respect. "You've been talking to the right people."

"I'm trying to," Ezra agreed, accepting the record. "I'm trying to."

The handwritten directions to Maxwell Richards' cottage sat on the passenger seat of Ezra's car, Dahlia's neat script listing landmarks rather than street names: "Past the fallen oak, left at the lightning-struck pine, follow the sound of water." It was the kind of navigation that belonged to another era—a time before GPS and cell phones, when knowledge of the land determined whether you reached your destination.

Ezra had waited three days since his conversation with Dahlia, deliberately establishing a pattern of visible activity around town—checking his mailbox at precise times, having lunch at the diner, conducting follow-up interviews for the Daniels case. All perfectly legitimate PI business that established his professional routine while giving him cover for his real interest.

The morning mist clung to the valley as he left Covenridge behind, following the narrow county road that traced the river's course upstream. After two miles, he spotted the weathered wooden sign Dahlia had described: "No Trespassing—Private Road." He turned onto the unpaved track, his sedan protesting as it navigated ruts and exposed roots.

The "road" quickly deteriorated into little more than a woodland path. Ezra parked in a small clearing and continued on foot, referring to Dahlia's notes. The fallen oak lay across the path exactly where she'd indicated, moss-covered and partially hollowed by years of decay. Beyond it, the lightning-struck pine rose like a skeletal hand, its split trunk blackened from an ancient storm.

As he pressed deeper into the forest, the sound of rushing water grew steadily louder. The path narrowed further, in places appearing deliberately obscured—branches arranged to discourage casual hikers, rocks positioned to require careful footing. Not random obstacles but intentional barriers.

The first sound that wasn't natural caught Ezra by surprise—a delicate tinkling like wind chimes, but with an irregular melody. He paused, tracing the sound to its source: guitar strings hung from tree branches at varying lengths, positioned to catch the breeze flowing off the river. Each movement produced notes that combined into haunting, random compositions.

"Sound traps," Ezra murmured, recalling a technique Cecil had mentioned—Maxwell's method for capturing ambient acoustic phenomena.

The path curved sharply, and Maxwell's cottage appeared suddenly before him—a weathered wooden structure perched precariously close to the riverbank. The building seemed to grow from the landscape, its timber exterior silvered with age, moss climbing one wall, a metal chimney rising from a sloped roof. A covered porch wrapped around the riverside portion, supporting more of the string instruments that created music from wind and water.

Ezra paused to take in the scene, assessing approach options with the caution his corporate security work had instilled. The cottage had few windows, all covered with heavy curtains. A stack of firewood stood neatly against one wall. No vehicle was visible, though a narrow path led around back where a shed stood partially hidden among trees.

The rapids of the Covenridge River thundered past mere yards from the structure, the water moving with frightening power over jagged rocks. Ezra recognized the dangerous current that had presumably carried away Aria's body thirty years ago. In the distance downstream, he could make out what must be Singer's Fall, where the river dropped suddenly between stone walls.

He approached the front door deliberately, making no attempt to mask his footsteps on the wooden porch. A wind gust caught the string instruments, creating a discordant announcement of his arrival.

Before he could knock, a gruff voice called from inside: "Whatever you're selling, I don't want it."

"I'm not selling anything, Mr. Richards," Ezra replied. "My name is Ezra Patel. I'd like to ask you about The Starlight Wanderers."

Silence followed, so complete that Ezra could hear the river's subtle harmonics—gurgles and splashes that created a complex soundscape. Then came shuffling footsteps, and the door opened barely six inches, secured by a heavy chain.

Maxwell Richards peered through the gap, his faded blue eyes sharp beneath bushy silver brows. He wore a flannel shirt that had seen better decades, and a felt hat partially obscured his shoulder-length gray hair. The hand gripping the door frame showed pronounced knuckles and guitarist's calluses that hadn't faded despite the years.

"You're trespassing," Maxwell said, his voice gravelly from disuse.

"I apologize for the intrusion," Ezra replied, keeping his tone neutral. "I'm researching the history of the band and thought you might⁠—"

"Not interested." Maxwell started to close the door.

"I'm particularly curious about the dead wax messages," Ezra continued quickly. "The ones that appear on some pressings but not others."

The door halted. Maxwell's eyes narrowed, reassessing Ezra.

"Who sent you? That professor from Westin? Or are you another collector looking to complete your precious set?" The contempt in his voice was palpable.

"Neither. I'm a private investigator recently returned to Covenridge after many years away."

"Investigating what, exactly? There's no crime here, no case to solve." Maxwell's gaze sharpened. "Unless someone's hired you? Is it Strand? That bastard still trying to squeeze more blood from stone?"

Ezra filed away the name—presumably the record executive mentioned in his research. "No one hired me, Mr. Richards. This is personal interest."

"Personal interest," Maxwell repeated flatly. "In thirty-year-old vinyl records. Try again, son."

"Mrs. Abbott showed me her collection," Ezra said, watching Maxwell's reaction carefully. "A pressing that once had a message that's been removed."

Something flashed in Maxwell's eyes—recognition, perhaps concern—before his expression hardened again.

"Isadora should know better than to stir up old ghosts." He gripped the door tighter. "Go back to town, investigator. Whatever you think you're looking for isn't here."

The door slammed shut with finality, followed by the sound of a deadbolt sliding into place.

Ezra remained on the porch for a moment, considering his options. Direct confrontation had failed, but the visit wasn't necessarily wasted. Maxwell's reaction had confirmed several things: he recognized Isadora Abbott's name immediately, showed definite knowledge about the dead wax messages, and mentioned someone named Strand with obvious animosity.

Since he'd come all this way, Ezra decided to conduct an exterior assessment before leaving. Professional thoroughness, he told himself, though his motivations were increasingly personal.

He circled the cottage, staying respectfully distant while noting details. The structure was larger than it first appeared, extending back into the trees. The few visible windows revealed glimpses of what looked like recording equipment—analog mixing boards, reel-to-reel tape machines, speakers mounted on the walls. One window offered a view of endless shelves holding what must be master tapes, carefully labeled and organized.

The shed behind the cottage proved more interesting—its padlock appeared recently used, lacking the rust that covered other metal fixtures. Through a small window, Ezra could make out shapes covered by protective cloths, their outlines suggesting storage for vinyl masters and production equipment.

As he completed his circuit, the sound of splitting wood drew his attention to the far side of the clearing. Maxwell stood at a chopping block, systematically reducing logs to kindling with powerful, practiced strokes that belied his age. He worked with focused intensity, seemingly unaware of Ezra's presence.

Or perhaps deliberately ignoring it.

Ezra weighed his options. The direct approach had failed, but Maxwell's physical activity suggested a man who functioned efficiently despite his isolation. Not a helpless hermit but someone choosing separation while maintaining capability.

He watched Maxwell work for several minutes, noting the precision of his movements and the economical use of energy—no wasted motion, no hesitation. The hands that had once crafted innovative soundscapes now wielded an axe with similar expertise.

When Maxwell paused to stack the split wood, Ezra approached slowly, making his footsteps audible on the pine needles.

"I'm leaving, Mr. Richards," he called. "I apologize for disturbing you."

Maxwell straightened, wiping his forehead with a sleeve. He studied Ezra with unexpected intensity.

"You said you're from Covenridge originally?" he asked, his tone marginally less hostile.

"Born and raised. Left after high school, recently returned."

Maxwell nodded as if confirming something to himself. "Patel... Professor's son? The mathematician and his historian wife?"

"Yes," Ezra replied, surprised. "You knew my parents?"

"Vaguely. They attended performances at the Starlight Hall." Maxwell's gaze drifted past Ezra toward the river. "Your mother wrote an article about local music traditions. Interviewed me once."

This was news to Ezra. His mother had never mentioned interviewing Maxwell Richards.

"I didn't know that."

"No reason you would." Maxwell set down his axe, studying Ezra with reassessment. "What's your real interest in the dead wax messages?"

Ezra considered his answer carefully. "I believe they form a pattern—a communication spread across different pressings. Mrs. Abbott seemed disturbed when a message she expected to find wasn't there."

Maxwell's hands flexed at his sides, calluses catching the morning light. For a moment, his fingers moved in subtle patterns—chord formations, perhaps, or some private notation system.

"Some things are better left buried," he said finally. "Not every mystery needs solving, investigator."

"Even when the official story doesn't align with physical evidence?"

Maxwell's eyes narrowed. "What evidence?"

"I haven't visited Singer's Fall yet," Ezra admitted. "But I intend to."

A cloud passed over Maxwell's expression. "Singer's Fall is dangerous. Slippery rocks, unpredictable currents. People have died there."

"Just Aria, according to records."

Maxwell turned away abruptly, grasping his axe again. "Go look if you must. But remember—water shapes landscapes over time. What you see today isn't what existed thirty years ago."

"Some things leave lasting marks," Ezra countered. "Like grooves in vinyl."

Maxwell paused, his back still turned. "You've never heard her voice, have you? Not the real thing, not in person."

"No. Before my time."

"Then you can't possibly understand what was lost." Maxwell's shoulders tensed. "Good day, Mr. Patel."

He resumed chopping wood with deliberate force, clearly ending the conversation. Ezra recognized the dismissal and retreated toward the path, Maxwell's words echoing in his mind: water shapes landscapes over time.

Rather than returning directly to his car, Ezra followed the river's edge downstream. The path grew fainter but remained distinguishable—perhaps formed by Maxwell's own journeys, perhaps by pilgrims visiting the spot where Aria had allegedly jumped.

After fifteen minutes of careful hiking, the terrain opened to reveal Singer's Fall—not a dramatic waterfall but a dangerous chute where the river narrowed between rock walls before plunging eight feet into a churning pool. The water moved with frightening speed here, white with foam as it rushed through the constricted passage.

Ezra stood on a flat rock outcropping above the falls, assessing the scene with professional detachment. According to news reports, Aria had jumped from somewhere near this spot. Maxwell had allegedly witnessed her leap, attempted rescue, but failed to reach her before the current carried her away.

The physical reality before him raised immediate questions. The distance from this ledge to the water was considerable—not a casual step but a committed leap requiring deliberate intent. More significantly, the acoustics of the location made Maxwell's claim of hearing a splash questionable—the river's roar would drown out such a sound unless he'd been standing very close.

Ezra carefully made his way along the rocky ledge, noting small items tucked into crevices—faded guitar picks, weathered photographs protected in plastic, even jewelry that had turned green with exposure. Tributes from fans, presumably, marking what had become an unofficial shrine.

As he studied the physical space, other inconsistencies emerged. The current patterns below the falls created a circular eddy where objects would likely become trapped rather than carried downstream. If Aria had jumped here, her body should have been recovered from that pool, not swept away as reported.

Ezra knelt to examine the rock surface, finding grooves and small cairns left by past visitors. One arrangement caught his eye—five smooth river stones stacked in decreasing size, topped with a piece of purple quartz. It appeared recent, the stones clean of moss that covered surrounding surfaces.

"Someone still maintains this place," he murmured.

He straightened, turning slowly to take in the full panorama of Singer's Fall. Something about the location felt performative—a natural amphitheater where river sounds resonated and carried. A place where a singer might come to hear their voice transformed by natural acoustics.

But not a place for an impulsive ending.

The journey back to his car took longer than expected, the uphill path more challenging than it had appeared on the descent. By the time Ezra reached Covenridge, it was past noon. He decided to stop at Brewedly Awakened for lunch, needing both sustenance and the opportunity to process his observations.

The coffee shop was busy with the lunch crowd—a mix of locals and hikers taking advantage of the clear spring day. Dahlia spotted him from behind the counter, raising an eyebrow in silent question as he approached.

"Maxwell's Melody, please," he said. "And whatever sandwich special you'd recommend."

"Coming up." She studied his face. "Productive morning?"

"Informative."

"I'll bring your order to the corner table," she said, nodding toward a relatively private spot. "Give me five minutes."

Ezra settled at the indicated table, organizing his mental notes. Maxwell had been hostile but not incapacitated by age or isolation as town gossip suggested. His cottage contained functional recording equipment rather than abandoned relics. Most significantly, his reaction to the dead wax messages had confirmed their importance.

"Turkey and avocado on sourdough," Dahlia announced, setting a plate before him along with his coffee. She glanced around before adding quietly, "I see you found the cottage."

"What gave it away?"

"Pine needles on your shoes, river mud on your cuffs, and that particular expression people get after encountering Maxwell for the first time." She slid into the chair opposite him. "How'd it go?"

"Didn't invite me in for tea, if that's what you're asking."

"He rarely invites anyone in. The fact that he spoke to you at all is notable."

Ezra took a bite of his sandwich, suddenly aware of his hunger. "He mentioned someone named Strand. With significant animosity."

Dahlia's eyes narrowed. "Victor Strand. Record executive who signed the band to their label. Not a well-loved figure in Covenridge history."

"He still around?"

"Retired to Florida, last I heard. Still collects royalties from The Starlight Wanderers catalog." Dahlia glanced toward the counter, where customers were beginning to line up. "I need to get back. Just a heads-up—Hargrove was asking if you'd gone up to Maxwell's place."

"How would he know that?"

"Tom Briggs saw your car parked at the trailhead. In Covenridge, information travels faster than people do." She stood, smoothing her apron. "You might want to consider who else is tracking your movements."

After she left, Ezra finished his lunch while observing the coffee shop's customers. Two older men at a nearby table were speaking just loudly enough for him to catch fragments:

"—Patel boy going up to the riverside—" "—stirring up old business—" "—Abbott shouldn't have shown him those records⁠—"

So his investigation wasn't just noticed but actively discussed. The town's invisible communication network was monitoring his actions, assessing his intentions. The knowledge was both unsettling and useful—it confirmed that his questions were touching on sensitive territory.

Back in his apartment, Ezra updated his cork board with the morning's discoveries. He added a sketch of the riverside cottage, notes about the inconsistencies at Singer's Fall, and Maxwell's revealing reactions. He connected these elements with red string to earlier data points, the pattern growing more complex yet more coherent.

As evening approached, he found himself drawn to the window, watching Main Street below. Hargrove was closing the hardware store, methodically bringing in the sidewalk display items. Further down the street, lights still glowed in Mrs. Abbott's bookstore despite the "Closed" sign visible in the window.

Ezra's phone chimed with a text message—a rarity given Covenridge's spotty service.

"If you visited the fall today, you should know water remembers. Some questions should be asked indoors, not where the river can hear. —D"

Dahlia's cryptic warning reflected the town's blend of practical caution and folklore beliefs. Whether she meant it literally or metaphorically, the message was clear: his actions were visible, his investigation noted, and certain approaches carried risks beyond the obvious.

He turned back to his cork board, studying the web of connections he'd built. Maxwell's cottage situated on the river, Mrs. Abbott's bookstore organized by emotional resonance, the Starlight Music Hall where the band performed their final concert, Singer's Fall where Aria allegedly died—all points on a map of tragedy that didn't quite align with the official narrative.

Tomorrow he would need to continue his legitimate PI business—a new client had scheduled a consultation about a missing family heirloom. But his mind remained fixed on the rushing water at Singer's Fall and the sound traps Maxwell had created to capture the river's voice.

In a town where sound found home, the most significant messages might be hidden in the spaces between notes, in the grooves between songs, in the silences people maintained about a thirty-year-old tragedy that still shaped the present.

The manila folder landed on Ezra's desk with a satisfying thump. He wrote "MATTHEWS, E.—RESOLVED" on the tab in neat block letters before filing it in the cabinet drawer marked "CLOSED CASES." His third successful case in two weeks—a teenager gone missing after an argument with his parents, located unharmed at a friend's house in Westin. Standard work, but it was paying the bills.

The cork board on his office wall now displayed two distinct investigation webs—one for legitimate cases on the left, another for The Starlight Wanderers on the right. The official business was necessary camouflage for his growing obsession with the band's history and Aria's fate.

A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in," he called, closing the filing cabinet.

The door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman clutching a purse with white-knuckled intensity. "Mr. Patel? I'm Lucille Parker. Harold Hargrove suggested I speak with you."

Ezra gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Please, have a seat, Mrs. Parker. How can I help you?"

She settled nervously, eyes darting to the investigation board before focusing on him. "It's my father's insurance policy. The company claims they never received his final premium payment, but I have the receipt. They're refusing to pay the death benefit."

"I see." Ezra reached for his notepad. "Documentation verification and insurance claims are certainly within my scope. Tell me more about the situation."

For the next thirty minutes, he took detailed notes as Lucille Parker explained her predicament. The case was straightforward—corporate stonewalling in hopes the claimant would give up—but it required persistent investigation and the right pressure points. Exactly the kind of legitimate work that would strengthen his business reputation while freeing mental resources for his other pursuit.

After she left, having signed his standard contract and paid a modest retainer, Ezra leaned back in his chair with a mix of satisfaction and impatience. His official business was gaining traction—three completed cases, one new client, and word-of-mouth spreading through town. Yet the other investigation pulled at him constantly, like music heard from another room.

His phone buzzed with a text message from Cecil: "New shipment arrived. Includes second pressing of 'Northern Lights,' first album. Thought you'd want first look."

Ezra checked his watch—2:30 pm. His next client appointment wasn't until 4:00 pm, giving him just enough time to visit The Turntable.

Main Street bustled with afternoon activity as Ezra walked toward Cedar Street. The spring weather had brought tourists to town, hiking boots and outdoor gear contrasting with locals' more casual attire. He nodded to Hargrove sweeping the sidewalk outside the hardware store.

"Another case from your recommendation," Ezra called. "Thanks for that."

Hargrove leaned on his broom. "Lucille? Good woman, being given the runaround by those insurance vultures. Fair warning—her father was my poker buddy for twenty years, so don't disappoint her."

"I'll give it my full attention," Ezra promised.

"Sure you will," Hargrove replied, his tone carrying skepticism. "Just like you're giving full attention to why you've suddenly become Cecil's best vinyl customer. Town notices things, Ezra."

The friendly warning hung in the air as Ezra continued on his way. Hargrove wasn't wrong—Covenridge's invisible communication network was undoubtedly tracking his growing vinyl collection alongside his PI business.

The bell above The Turntable's door announced his arrival. Cecil looked up from behind the counter where he was carefully cleaning a record with specialized fluid.

"Ezra! Perfect timing." Cecil set aside his cleaning materials. "Just got in several interesting pressings I thought might fill some gaps in your collection."

"I appreciate the heads-up." Ezra approached the counter. "How many different pressings existed for each Starlight Wanderers album?"

Cecil's eyes lit up at the technical question. "Depends on the album. 'Northern Lights,' their first release, had two distinct pressings—the original run of 500 copies and a second batch of about 2,000 after college radio started playing them. Their second album, 'Echo Chamber,' had three variants—initial test pressing of maybe 50 copies, then two commercial runs. 'Midnight Reverberations,' the final album, is most complicated—test pressing, first commercial, European import, and posthumous reissue. Each with different dead wax characteristics."

Cecil disappeared into the back room, returning with three album-sized plastic sleeves. "These just came in from a collector in Portland who's downsizing. Second pressing of 'Northern Lights,' a European copy of 'Echo Chamber,' and—most interesting—a test pressing of 'Midnight Reverberations.'"

Ezra examined each record carefully, focusing particularly on the test pressing. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward the turntable setup in the corner.

"Be my guest." Cecil handed him a pair of white cotton gloves. "You know the proper handling procedure by now."

Ezra donned the gloves and carefully placed the test pressing on the turntable. As the music filled the shop—Aria's haunting voice over Maxwell's atmospheric guitar—he leaned close to examine the dead wax area with the magnifying glass Cecil kept nearby.

"There," he murmured, spotting the etched message near the label: "Truth lives between frequencies—seek the pattern across⁠—"

"It cuts off there," Cecil said, leaning over his shoulder. "But that's the thing about these messages—they continue on other records. It's like the band created a treasure hunt across different pressings."

"Or a message too dangerous to place on a single record," Ezra suggested.

Cecil straightened. "You're thinking something deliberately hidden. I like that theory."

Ezra carefully returned the record to its sleeve. "Have you ever tried assembling all the messages in sequence? Based on album chronology or production dates?"

"That's the holy grail of Wanderers collectors." Cecil led him to the register. "Problem is, no one person has access to all variants. The messages are scattered across hundreds of collections worldwide."

"What about the pressing plant? Would they have kept records of what was etched on each batch?"

Cecil paused, studying Ezra with newfound interest. "The CovenVinyl plant closed shortly after 'Midnight Reverberations' came out. Most equipment was abandoned on site. I've never heard of anyone finding production notes, though." He leaned forward. "You're thinking like an investigator now, not just a collector."

"Force of habit," Ezra replied, maintaining casual tone. "Where was the plant located?"

"Industrial zone outside town, past the old mill. Buildings still standing, but it's been vacant for decades." Cecil named a price for the three records. "So, adding these to your collection?"

Ezra nodded, handing over his credit card. The amount represented a significant portion of his earnings from the Matthews case, but the investment felt necessary. Each record brought him closer to understanding the puzzle Mrs. Abbott had introduced him to.

"One more question," Ezra said as Cecil bagged his purchases. "Is it possible to remove a message from the dead wax without damaging the music?"

Cecil's expression turned serious. "Technically, yes. With the right equipment, someone could carefully polish that specific area. It would leave a smoother texture than surrounding dead wax—detectable under magnification. But it's rare. Why would anyone bother?"

"Unless the message contained something worth hiding," Ezra suggested.

"Or protecting," Cecil countered. "Depending on perspective."

As Ezra left the shop, he noticed dark clouds gathering over the eastern ridge—a storm system moving toward town. The barometric pressure was dropping rapidly, creating that specific heaviness in the air that preceded Covenridge's mountain storms.

Back in his office, Ezra had just enough time to update his investigation board before his 4:00 pm appointment. He added notes about the different pressings, the fragmented message he'd discovered, and Cecil's information about the abandoned pressing plant. The pattern was becoming clearer—a deliberate communication spread across multiple records, requiring someone to possess all variants to assemble the complete message.

His client—a local contractor disputing material delivery dates with a supplier—arrived precisely on time. The case was straightforward but demanded Ezra's full professional attention for the next hour. By the time they'd established a strategy and signed the necessary paperwork, the storm had arrived in full force. Rain lashed against the office windows, and occasional thunder rattled the glass.

"You might want to wait it out," Ezra suggested as the contractor prepared to leave. "These storms can flood the lower streets within minutes."

"Appreciate the concern, but I've got waterproof boots and deadlines." The man shrugged into his raincoat. "Besides, it's just another audio day starting up. Sound carries better than cell signals in this weather."

The casual reference to Covenridge's acoustic phenomenon caught Ezra's attention. "Audio day?"

"Sure. Barometric pressure drops, temperature differential between valley and ridge increases, and suddenly you can hear conversations from three blocks away. Handy for gossip, terrible for privacy." The contractor grinned. "Why do you think everyone goes quiet when these storms roll in? Secrets travel on the rain here."

After his client left, Ezra stood at the window watching sheets of rain transform Main Street into a series of reflective pools. Audio day. Dahlia had mentioned this phenomenon—when sound carried unusually well through the valley. A natural opportunity for information gathering.

He gathered his rain jacket and locked the office, descending the stairs to the street level. The hardware store had closed early due to the storm, its windows dark. Ezra turned up his collar against the downpour and made his way toward Resonant Pages, where warm light glowed behind partially fogged windows.

The bookstore appeared empty of customers when he entered, shaking water from his jacket. The bell above the door chimed, but no one appeared at the counter. Ezra moved deeper into the shop, hearing voices from the back room—the door slightly ajar, allowing sound to carry.

"—not your decision to make, Isadora." Dahlia's voice, unusually tense.

"He's stirring up things better left settled," Mrs. Abbott replied. "The pressing plant, Strand's contract terms, the messages in the dead wax—what good comes from revealing it all now?"

"Maybe the truth deserves to be known. After thirty years, don't you think⁠—"

"It won't bring her back." Mrs. Abbott's voice cracked slightly. "Nothing will bring her back."

"This isn't about bringing her back. It's about honoring what she tried to tell people before⁠—"

A loud crack of thunder drowned out Dahlia's words. When the sound subsided, the women had lowered their voices, now inaudible from Ezra's position.

He deliberately created noise, moving toward the poetry section and allowing a book to slip from his hands to the floor. The conversation in the back room ceased immediately.

"Hello?" Mrs. Abbott called out. "Is someone there?"

"It's Ezra," he replied, approaching the counter. "Sorry to intrude during the storm."

The back room door opened fully as Mrs. Abbott emerged, composed but with tension visible around her eyes. "Not at all. The store's technically open, though most people have more sense than to be out in this weather."

Dahlia appeared behind her, carrying a teacup. Her gaze met Ezra's with knowing assessment. "Audio day," she said simply. "Sound travels."

The acknowledgment hung in the air—a recognition that he might have overheard their conversation, and they were aware of that possibility.

"I was hoping to talk to you about the pressing plant," Ezra said, deciding directness was his best approach. "I understand The Starlight Wanderers' records were manufactured there."

Mrs. Abbott's fingers tensed on the counter edge. "CovenVinyl, yes. It closed in 1992. What's your interest in a defunct business?"

"I'm trying to understand the dead wax messages. Cecil at The Turntable believes they form a pattern across different pressings, but no one has the complete set to verify the theory."

"And you think production records might help reconstruct the sequence," Dahlia supplied, setting her teacup on the counter. "Logical, but optimistic. Most documentation was lost when the plant closed."

"Most, but not all?" Ezra pressed.

The women exchanged a glance that contained volumes of unspoken communication.

"The plant's still standing," Mrs. Abbott said finally. "East edge of town, past the old mill. The equipment was too expensive to move, too specialized to sell locally, so they simply locked the doors and walked away. Whether any records remain is another question entirely."

Dahlia checked her watch. "I should get back to the shop. Left Jessie alone with the storm crowd." She gave Mrs. Abbott's arm a gentle squeeze before turning to Ezra. "Be careful digging into industrial ruins. Buildings deteriorate, floors collapse. Structural hazards aren't worth satisfying curiosity."

After Dahlia left, Mrs. Abbott studied Ezra with unsettling intensity. "You heard us talking, didn't you? Before you made your presence known."

"Fragments," Ezra admitted. "Something about Strand's contract terms."

"Victor Strand," she confirmed, her voice tightening. "The record executive who signed the band to Meridian Records. A vulture in expensive suits." She moved to straighten a display that needed no adjustment. "What exactly are you investigating, Ezra? You have no client, no fee, no crime to solve. Just an obsession with thirty-year-old vinyl records and dead wax messages that mean nothing to anyone outside a handful of collectors."

The direct challenge required an honest response. "I'm investigating inconsistencies. Why pressings of the same album have different dead wax messages. Why official reports about Aria's death don't align with the physical realities at Singer's Fall. Why you showed me that photograph with such carefully selected information about your involvement with the band."

Mrs. Abbott went very still. "Some investigations hurt more than help. Have you considered that?"

"I have," Ezra acknowledged. "But I've also considered that secrets preserved too long tend to distort the communities that keep them."

The shop fell silent except for rain drumming against the windows and occasional thunder. Mrs. Abbott's expression shifted through complex emotions before settling into resignation.

"The pressing plant," she said finally. "If you're determined to go there, wait until tomorrow. The access road floods during heavy rain." She reached below the counter and retrieved a small brass key attached to a faded red tag. "This opens the side entrance. The main doors were chained after kids broke in during the late nineties."

Ezra accepted the key with surprise. "You have access to the plant?"

"I have access to many things in Covenridge." Her smile held no warmth. "The building's owner was a friend. Whether any useful records remain after thirty years of neglect is questionable."

"Thank you," Ezra said, pocketing the key. "I'll be careful."

"See that you are." Mrs. Abbott glanced toward the window where lightning briefly illuminated the street. "When you've satisfied your curiosity about dead wax messages, perhaps you'll return to more productive pursuits. This town needs a competent investigator for actual problems, not historical obsessions."

The criticism stung precisely because it echoed Ezra's own doubts. He was investing significant time and resources in an unofficial investigation, potentially at the expense of his legitimate business.

"My other cases are proceeding well," he said. "The insurance verification for Lucille Parker, documentation for Mark Reeves's contract dispute. I can manage both."

"Can you?" Mrs. Abbott's gaze was penetrating. "When was the last time you updated your actual case files versus that cork board in your office?"

The accuracy of her knowledge about his workspace was unsettling. "You haven't been to my office."

"Small towns," she replied simply. "Jessica Hargrove helped her father with inventory last week. Your windows were open because of the heat. She mentioned the board to her mother, who mentioned it to Dahlia, who mentioned it to me. Information flows like water here, following the path of least resistance."

The reminder of Covenridge's invisible communication network reinforced the challenges of conducting any discreet investigation in town. Even as he pursued answers about The Starlight Wanderers, the community was watching, assessing, discussing his methods and motives.

"I should go," Ezra said, moving toward the door. "Thank you for the key."

"Ezra." Mrs. Abbott's voice stopped him. "Be careful what you wish to uncover. Some truths don't set anyone free—they just create new prisons with different walls."

The warning followed him into the rainy street, where the storm had intensified. As he hurried back toward his apartment, Ezra noticed the local newspaper delivery person placing stacks of the weekly Covenridge Chronicle at various businesses, protected from rain by plastic covers.

He grabbed a copy from outside the closed hardware store and dashed upstairs to his apartment. Shaking off rain, he spread the paper on his kitchen table, scanning headlines about town council meetings and upcoming events. On page three, a small article caught his eye:

NEW DETECTIVE AGENCY FILLS COMMUNITY NEED Local historian Harold Hargrove reports that Ezra Patel, son of former residents Dr. James and Dr. Elizabeth Patel, has established a private investigation business above Hargrove's Hardware. Already solving several cases including documentation verification and missing persons, Patel has expressed interest in historical Covenridge cases as well. "He's meticulous, like his father," Hargrove notes, "though his interest in certain aspects of town history strikes some as unusual for a professional investigator."

The article was brief but loaded with subtext—acknowledgment of his legitimate work alongside a veiled reference to his Starlight Wanderers investigation. More significantly, it publicly connected him to "historical Covenridge cases," potentially alerting anyone with interests in keeping the past buried.

Ezra's phone rang—unusual given the storm's typical interference with cell service. The screen showed "Unknown Caller," but the local area code identified it as a Covenridge number.

"Patel Investigations," he answered professionally.

"Leave it alone." The voice was male, deliberately disguised by what sounded like fabric over the mouthpiece. "The dead should stay buried, and so should their secrets."

"Who is this?" Ezra demanded.

"Someone who understands what you don't—that some mysteries solved create more damage than closure. Walk away from the dead wax messages, from Singer's Fall, from Aria's story. Focus on your missing cats and cheating spouses."

The call disconnected before Ezra could respond. He stared at the phone, processing the direct warning. Someone felt threatened enough by his investigation to issue explicit threats—which confirmed he was moving in meaningful directions.

Rain continued to lash against his windows as thunder rolled through the valley. Ezra spread his newest vinyl acquisitions on the table, examining each with a magnifying glass. He focused on the test pressing of "Midnight Reverberations," studying the area where Cecil had pointed out the partial message: "Truth lives between frequencies—seek the pattern across⁠—"

The message's deliberate fragmentation across multiple pressings suggested information too sensitive to concentrate in one place. A security measure, perhaps, ensuring that only someone with access to all variants could assemble the complete communication.

What truth had Aria and The Starlight Wanderers tried to embed in their vinyl, hidden in plain sight yet protected from casual discovery? And who had gone to the trouble of removing that message from Mrs. Abbott's copy?

Ezra retrieved his microscope from his investigation kit and carefully positioned Mrs. Abbott's record beneath it. At 40x magnification, the evidence was unmistakable—the dead wax showed subtle circular patterns inconsistent with natural vinyl surface texture. Someone had deliberately polished that specific area, removing whatever message had been etched there while preserving the music grooves.

Not accidental damage or manufacturing variation, but intentional erasure.

He made detailed notes and photographs of his findings before carefully returning each record to its protective sleeve. Tomorrow he would visit the pressing plant, searching for production records that might help reconstruct the sequence of messages. But tonight, as the storm raged outside his windows, he had confirmation of deliberate tampering—evidence that transformed vague suspicion into documented fact.

Someone had gone to considerable trouble to silence Aria's voice, not just in life but in the dead wax where her final messages had been preserved. And that same someone, or their allies, was now warning Ezra to abandon his investigation.

He picked up his phone and composed a text message to Cecil: "Need to see any other pressings you can locate. Willing to pay premium. This is more than collector's interest now."

The reply came surprisingly quickly despite the storm: "Figured as much. Local newspaper put you on certain radar screens. Be careful. Some collectors value privacy above disclosure."

Ezra moved to his cork board, adding the anonymous call and the newspaper article to the growing web of connections. His legitimate business was gaining traction, but so was opposition to his unofficial investigation. The balance between these competing interests would only become more challenging as he ventured deeper into Covenridge's musical past.

The pressing plant awaited tomorrow. For tonight, he needed to maintain his professional discipline, updating case notes on his actual clients while the storm performed its acoustic symphony against his windows. In a town where sound found home, every noise carried meaning—including the warning from an unknown caller determined to keep the dead wax messages from revealing their complete truth.

The morning after the storm, Ezra sat across from Lucille Parker in his office, sliding a folder across his desk.

"The insurance company has a pattern of 'losing' final premium payments," he explained, tapping the documents. "Seven similar complaints in the last two years, all resolved once legal representation got involved."

Lucille's face brightened with hope as she examined the evidence. "So they're deliberately doing this?"

"Let's say it's too consistent to be accidental. Their retention rate on death benefits is forty percent above industry average." Ezra handed her a business card. "This attorney specializes in insurance disputes. Mention my name and the documentation I've provided. The company will likely settle rather than face discovery."

"Mr. Patel, I don't know how to thank you. Dad would be so pleased." She clutched the folder to her chest. "Harold was right about you."

After Lucille left, Ezra locked his office and stood at the window, watching her cross Main Street. His legitimate business was gaining momentum, each resolved case building his reputation. Yet his gaze drifted toward the eastern edge of town, where the abandoned Starlight Music Hall waited. The pressing plant could wait another day.

He retrieved his camera, notebook, and a small flashlight before heading to his car. The post-storm morning had dawned clear and cool, the mountains etched sharply against a crystalline sky. Puddles from yesterday's downpour reflected the blue above, slowly evaporating in the warming air.

The Starlight Music Hall stood on a slight rise at the edge of town, its Art Deco façade still impressive despite decades of neglect. Curved lines and geometric patterns adorned what remained of the front entrance, though nature had begun reclaiming the structure—vines climbing the walls, small trees sprouting from gutters.

A chain-link fence surrounded the property, a weathered sign warning "DANGER - UNSTABLE STRUCTURE - NO TRESPASSING." Beside the main gate, a smaller sign read "Under restoration by the Covenridge Historical Preservation Committee."

As Ezra studied the fence line for access points, a voice called from behind him.

"Looking for a way in?"

He turned to find an elderly man approaching along the sidewalk, leaning on a carved wooden cane. The man's weathered face crinkled with amusement.

"Depends who's asking," Ezra replied carefully.

"Martin Gellert." The man extended a gnarled hand. "Preservation Committee secretary and former stagehand. You'd be Ezra Patel, the new detective who's asking questions about The Starlight Wanderers."

Ezra shook his hand, noting the calluses that spoke of decades of manual work. "News travels fast."

"Small town, big ears." Martin produced a ring of keys from his pocket. "I figured you'd show up here eventually. Everybody looking into the band ends up at the hall sooner or later. Question is whether they come in through the fence after dark or through the front door in daylight."

"I prefer doors when they're available."

Martin chuckled, unlocking the padlock on the gate. "Smart man. Building's unstable in parts—roof collapse took out the balcony section and part of the lobby. But the stage area's secure. We've reinforced it."

As they entered the grounds, Martin moved with the deliberate pace of someone managing old injuries. "Committee meets twice monthly to maintain what we can," he explained. "Tarps over the stage, dehumidifiers in the basement archives, structural supports where needed. Running on donations and volunteer labor."

"Mrs. Abbott mentioned a preservation committee. She's involved?"

Martin shot him a sharp glance. "Unofficially. Anonymous donor keeps our electricity on and our insurance paid. Town's worst-kept secret whose checkbook is behind that."

They reached the side entrance—a steel door with fresh hinges that contrasted with the weathered building. Martin unlocked it with practiced movements.

"Watch your step," he warned. "And stay close. Some floors aren't what they used to be."

The door opened into a small vestibule that might once have been a side lobby. Emergency lights powered by a generator provided minimal illumination, casting long shadows across debris-strewn floors.

"Main lobby's through there, but it's unstable," Martin pointed to a doorway blocked by yellow caution tape. "We'll go backstage first, then to the main hall. Safer route."

As they moved down a narrow corridor, Ezra noticed the building's unusual quiet. Despite broken windows and visible gaps in the structure, outside sounds seemed muted, absorbed somehow by the walls themselves.

"Acoustic design," Martin explained, noting Ezra's expression. "Specially shaped concrete in the walls, angled ceilings, purpose-built sound baffles. Engineer who designed this place was decades ahead of his time."

The corridor opened into a large backstage area surprisingly well-preserved compared to the exterior. Faded black paint covered the walls, with work lights strung along exposed beams. Metal equipment cases lined one wall, and a battered upright piano stood in the corner.

"This is where they waited," Martin said, his voice taking on a reverent quality. "Final show, October 14, 1990. Standing room only, people outside listening through the windows. I was running the stage left that night."

"You saw the performance?"

"Every minute." Martin's eyes grew distant with memory. "Twenty-two songs. They were supposed to play eighteen, but Aria kept going. Maxwell tried to end it after the planned set, but she had something to prove that night."

Ezra removed his notebook. "Mind if I take notes?"

"That's why I'm here, isn't it? To share what I remember with the detective?" There was no mockery in Martin's tone, just resigned acceptance. "Committee figured better you hear it direct than piece it together from rumors."

"I appreciate that. What do you remember about the band that night?"

Martin leaned against the wall, setting his cane carefully beside him. "Tension. From the moment they arrived for sound check. Maxwell and Aria barely spoke except about technical matters. The others—Sam on bass, Derek on drums—they were trying to keep things professional, but everyone felt it."

"What caused the tension?"

"Contract disputes with the label, officially. Meridian was pushing for a more commercial sound on the next album. But underneath?" Martin shook his head. "Personal stuff. Maxwell and Aria had their own battles going back years. That night it all came to a head."

"How so?"

"During 'River's Memory'—their usual closing number—Aria changed the lyrics. Subtle things, replacing 'your lies' with 'father's lies.' Maxwell's face went white." Martin tapped his temple. "Some things you don't forget, even thirty years later."

Ezra jotted this down. "Father's lies?"

Martin's weathered face revealed nothing. "Not my place to explain that. Ask Mrs. Abbott if you want that story."

"What happened after she changed the lyrics?"

"Maxwell signaled to end the show, but Aria launched into 'The Lament'—a song they'd never performed live, wasn't on any album. Just her voice and acoustic guitar. Most beautiful, terrible thing I ever heard." Martin's voice roughened. "Like she was saying goodbye to everyone and everything. When she finished, she walked offstage and out the door. That was the last public sighting of her."

"Two days before she disappeared at Singer's Fall," Ezra noted.

"According to the official story." Martin's tone carried subtle skepticism. "Come on, I'll show you something."

He led Ezra deeper backstage, into a narrow hallway lined with small dressing rooms. The third door opened into a space that had clearly been Aria's—a dressing table with a cracked mirror, faded band posters on the walls, an instrument stand in the corner.

"Preservation Committee maintains this exactly as she left it," Martin explained. "Down to the lipstick on the table."

Ezra examined the room carefully. "Feels more like a shrine than preservation."

"For some, it is," Martin agreed. "But look here." He pointed to the wall beside the mirror, where someone had written in purple marker, now faded but still legible: "Truth lives between frequencies—seek the pattern across divided spaces—hidden from those who commodify sound."

Ezra stared at the writing, recognition jolting through him. "This matches the dead wax messages. Parts of it, at least."

"Noticed that, did you?" Martin nodded. "Aria wrote in all her dressing rooms. Usually lyrics or poem fragments. But this appeared the night of the final show."

"Did Maxwell know about this?"

"If he did, he never mentioned it. After that night, he never set foot in this building again." Martin paused. "Well, almost never."

Ezra's investigative instincts sharpened. "Almost?"

Martin gestured for Ezra to follow him back to the main backstage area. Against the far wall stood a metal filing cabinet with a combination lock.

"Committee archives," Martin explained, spinning the dial with practiced movements. "We've documented the hall's condition since we started preservation efforts in 2005. Photographs, maintenance records, visitor logs."

The cabinet opened to reveal neatly organized folders. Martin selected one labeled "Annual Documentation 2010-2020" and removed a large envelope.

"October 2015," he said, handing Ezra a photograph. "Security camera we installed to monitor structural stability. Motion activated."

The grainy black-and-white image showed a figure standing center stage, head bowed. Even with the poor quality, Ezra recognized Maxwell Richards' distinctive silhouette, his long hair and familiar hat unmistakable.

"Twenty-fifth anniversary of the final show," Martin explained. "Middle of the night. Camera caught him standing there for seventeen minutes. Never touched anything, never said a word that we know of. Just stood there, then left."

"Did anyone confront him about it?"

"Who would dare?" Martin returned the photograph to its folder. "Man lost everything that night. If standing on that stage helped him somehow, wasn't our place to interfere."

"May I see the stage?"

Martin nodded, gesturing toward double doors at the back of the area. "Main event. Careful where you step."

The doors opened onto the stage itself—a vast wooden platform covered partially by heavy-duty tarps. Beyond, the main hall stretched into shadow, rows of seats still visible despite the debris covering some areas. Sunlight filtered through holes in the ceiling, creating dramatic shafts of illumination that spotlighted random sections of the auditorium.

Ezra stepped carefully onto the stage, immediately noticing how the acoustics changed. The sound of his footsteps gained depth, each step resonating with subtle undertones that carried throughout the space.

"Twelve hundred seats when it was operational," Martin said, his voice transformed by the hall's natural amplification. "Curved ceiling channels sound perfectly to every corner. Musicians claimed they could whisper onstage and be heard in the back row."

"It's remarkable," Ezra agreed, moving toward center stage. "Even in this condition."

"Some damage can't be undone, but the acoustics remain." Martin tapped his cane on the floor, producing complex reverberations. "Building remembers its purpose, even as its body fails."

A distant sound filtered through the broken windows—someone passing on the street outside, car stereo playing faintly. Within the hall, the music transformed, gaining resonance and clarity as the acoustics shaped the sound waves. For a moment, the fragment of melody seemed to come from everywhere at once.

"That's how it happens," Martin said, noting Ezra's startled reaction. "Outside sounds get caught in the architectural design, amplified and redistributed. Visitors sometimes think they're hearing ghosts."

"But it's just acoustic physics," Ezra suggested.

"Physics explains the mechanism, not the meaning." Martin moved to the edge of the stage. "Come see the evidence you're really looking for."

He led Ezra to a trapdoor partially hidden beneath a tarp. "Stage left storage. We keep the more sensitive archives here, away from the leaky roof."

The small space beneath the stage held metal shelving units filled with document boxes. Martin retrieved one labeled "Final Performance - Documentation" and placed it on a small worktable.

"Technical rider from their last show," he explained, removing a stapled document. "Lists exactly what equipment they used, stage positioning, microphone preferences. But notice the handwritten notes in the margins."

Ezra examined the pages carefully. Technical specifications filled the main text, but the margins contained handwritten annotations—some in different colored inks, others in pencil. Many appeared to be standard technical notes, but certain phrases stood out:

"Ensure independent recording feed to remote backup. M. must not access master reels."

"Contract requires full recording rights transfer to label ONLY in event of dissolution or death."

"Aria - remember alternative exit plan if situation escalates."

Ezra photographed these pages with his phone. "These contradict the official narrative that everything was normal until Aria's sudden suicide."

"They weren't just planning a concert. They were planning contingencies." Martin tapped the document. "Look at the signature page."

The final page listed all approved personnel for backstage access during the show. In addition to band members, crew, and venue staff, Ezra spotted two names that triggered immediate recognition:

"Victor Strand - Meridian Records" "Allen Merrick - Personal Security"

"Merrick," Ezra said. "The coroner who ruled Aria's death a suicide without recovering a body was named Merrick."

"Allen's brother," Martin confirmed. "Family connection that never made the newspapers."

"And Strand was physically present at their final show."

"Front row, looking like he'd swallowed something sour each time Aria went off-script." Martin's face hardened. "Man knew talent but had the soul of an accountant. Saw dollar signs where others saw art."

As Martin returned the documents to their box, another distant sound filtered into the hall—a car passing with radio playing. The acoustics caught a fragment of female vocals, transforming and amplifying until it seemed to emanate from the stage itself. For a disorienting moment, Ezra could have sworn someone was singing right behind him.

He turned sharply, heart racing, but found only empty air.

"That'll happen," Martin said with knowing sympathy. "Especially with certain frequencies. Female vocals in particular seem to get caught in the architecture."

"It sounded so close," Ezra admitted, slightly embarrassed by his reaction.

"Aria's recordings do that more than most. Something about her vocal range matches the hall's natural resonance." Martin closed the storage trapdoor. "Some of the preservation volunteers refuse to work alone because of it."

They made their way back through the backstage area toward the exit. As they walked, Martin seemed to be weighing a decision.

"There's something else you should know," he said finally. "About the night Aria disappeared."

Ezra waited, giving the older man space to continue at his own pace.

"Official story says she jumped at Singer's Fall two days after the final show. Maxwell the only witness." Martin stopped walking, turning to face Ezra directly. "What nobody mentions is that Strand had scheduled a contract renegotiation meeting at Maxwell's studio the same day. Meridian Records lawyers, accountants, the whole corporate circus."

"How do you know this?"

"I was supposed to deliver some equipment Maxwell had left at the hall. Arrived at his riverside place around noon. Saw five men in suits leaving as I pulled up. Maxwell was on the porch, drinking straight from a whiskey bottle." Martin's eyes clouded with memory. "He told me to go away. Said Aria had left hours earlier, heading upriver to 'clear her head' before the meeting. That was the last time anyone admits seeing her alive."

"You don't believe the suicide narrative," Ezra observed.

"I believe Aria was many things—troubled, brilliant, fierce. But not self-destructive." Martin resumed walking. "I also believe that examining a suicide too closely can make powerful people uncomfortable, especially when recording contracts have death clauses."

They reached the side entrance, stepping back into bright sunshine that felt jarring after the hall's shadowy interior.

"Death clauses?" Ezra asked.

"Standard in Meridian contracts back then. If an artist died, all rights reverted to the label immediately, including unreleased materials." Martin locked the door behind them. "Meridian's revenue from Starlight Wanderers catalog sales tripled after Aria's death. Reissues, commemorative packages, posthumous compilations of 'previously unreleased material.'"

"Creating financial incentive to accept the suicide ruling without question," Ezra concluded.

"I didn't say that." Martin's tone was careful as they walked back to the gate. "Just sharing historical context for your investigation."

At the fence line, the elderly man secured the padlock before turning to Ezra one last time.

"Committee meets this Thursday at 7:00 pm at the library. We review preservation priorities, funding needs. You might find it educational."

"I'll consider it. Thank you for the tour."

"Word of advice?" Martin leaned on his cane. "The pressing plant you're planning to visit? Structural engineers condemned it five years ago. Roof's more holes than protection, floors rotted through in places. If you're determined to go, at least bring someone who knows which sections to avoid."

Ezra nodded, surprised at how much the committee knew about his investigation. "I'll keep that in mind."

"One more thing." Martin glanced back at the Starlight Music Hall, its weathered facade gleaming in the morning sun. "People who dig too deeply into this history tend to stir up opposition. Anonymous calls, minor vandalism, community pressure. Committee's documented every attempt to investigate over the years. Pattern always repeats."

"I've already received a warning call," Ezra admitted.

"Then you're right on schedule." Martin's lined face showed resignation rather than surprise. "Question is whether you'll follow the pattern to its conclusion or find a different path."

As Ezra walked back to his car, he glanced over his shoulder at the hall one last time. Despite its partial collapse, the building maintained a dignified presence, its Art Deco lines elegant even in decay. For a moment, he thought he saw movement at an upper window—a flash of something dark like flowing hair—but when he focused, nothing was there but broken glass and shadow.

The evidence from the hall had confirmed several suspicions while raising new questions. The graffiti in Aria's dressing room matched fragments of the dead wax messages, suggesting their deliberate nature. The technical rider's margin notes indicated planning and concern before the final show, contradicting the narrative of a spontaneous suicide days later.

Most significantly, Martin's account placed record executive Victor Strand at Maxwell's riverside studio the day Aria disappeared, creating potential connection between contract negotiations and her death. Combined with the coroner's family tie to Meridian Records security, it painted a disturbing picture of possible conflicts of interest.

Ezra started his car, mind racing with new connections to add to his investigation board. The pressing plant could wait one more day—he needed to process what he'd learned at the Starlight Music Hall first. The building's unique acoustics had captured fragments of outside sound and transformed them into ghostly echoes, much like this investigation was capturing fragments of past events and reshaping them into something that increasingly contradicted the official narrative.

As he drove back toward town, Ezra couldn't shake the memory of that moment on stage—the disorienting second when he'd turned, certain someone was singing behind him, only to find empty air. In Covenridge, where sound found home, the line between acoustic phenomenon and something more mysterious seemed as permeable as the boundary between present and past.

Rain tapped against the courthouse windows as Ezra squinted at the microfiche screen. The county archives, housed in the basement of the Covenridge Municipal Building, smelled of dust and aged paper. A fluorescent light flickered overhead, threatening to join the two others that had already surrendered to entropy.

Ezra rolled his shoulders, easing the tension from three hours of hunching over the antiquated reader. The October 1990 editions of the Covenridge Chronicle scrolled past, frame by frame, each capturing the community's gradual acceptance of Aria's death.

He checked his watch—1:15 pm. His meeting with the Briggs family about their missing son was scheduled for 3:00 pm, giving him less than two more hours to finish this research.

"Find what you're looking for?" The voice startled him.

Ezra turned to find Carol Mason, the county records clerk, standing at his elbow with a stack of requested files. In her sixties with steel-gray hair and half-moon reading glasses, she'd been maintaining these archives since before Ezra was born.

"Still looking," he replied, gesturing at the screen. "Thanks for pulling these."

"Coroner's summary reports from 1985 through 1995. Public portions only." She set the folders beside him. "You need anything else before my lunch break?"

"This should do it. I appreciate your help."

Carol lingered, studying the microfiche screen. "Aria's death. That's going back some years."

"Just filling in historical context," Ezra replied carefully.

"Mm-hmm." Carol adjusted her glasses. "Interesting that you requested coroner's reports alongside newspaper accounts. Almost like you're comparing official findings with public narrative."

"Professional habit. Multiple sources provide better perspective."

"Indeed they do." She tapped the top folder. "Allen Merrick was coroner back then. Retired in '99. Died in 2005." Her finger traced the edge of the folder. "Convenient, some might say."

Ezra studied her face. "Convenient?"

"Dead men can't clarify their findings." Carol glanced toward the stairs, ensuring they were alone. "My husband worked security at Meridian Records' regional office. Said Allen's brother was on their payroll for years. Nothing improper about that, of course."

The deliberate emphasis said otherwise.

"Of course," Ezra agreed, matching her tone.

Carol straightened. "Archives close at 5:00 pm. Return materials to the desk when you're finished." She moved toward the stairs, then paused. "Oh, and Mr. Patel? Some of the older microfilm gets stuck. If you need help advancing frames, just ask whoever's at the desk."

After she left, Ezra returned to the screen, suddenly aware of what Carol had actually been telling him—look more closely at what might be hidden between frames.

The newspaper's coverage of Aria's death began as a front-page story, shifted to human interest pieces about her musical legacy, then dwindled to occasional mentions in community retrospectives. Ezra documented each article methodically, noting how the initial descriptions of "apparent suicide" calcified into "tragic suicide" without any new evidence being presented.

He slowed the advancement between the October 18th and 19th editions, heeding Carol's hint. Sure enough, there was a barely visible partial frame—as if an article had been photographed but deliberately not included in the official archive.

The visible fragment showed what appeared to be an interview with a "local fisher" who claimed to have been "upstream from Singer's Fall" on the afternoon Aria disappeared. Only a partial quote remained: "...heard shouting from near Maxwell's place. Female voice, then multiple male voices. No way anyone jumping in that day would've been carried downstr..."

The rest was cut off.

Ezra photographed the screen with his phone, then moved to the coroner's files. Allen Merrick's report on Aria's death was clinically detached in its language but remarkably thin on evidence. The conclusion of suicide rested almost entirely on Maxwell's testimony that he'd witnessed her jump after she had been "despondent about creative differences with the record label."

No body was recovered despite "exhaustive search efforts." No autopsy performed. No toxicology. The time of death was estimated at "approximately 2:00 pm" on October 16, 1990—coinciding with what Martin Gellert had described as a contract negotiation meeting at Maxwell's studio.

Most telling was what the report didn't contain—no statements from other witnesses, no investigation of Aria's mental health history, no examination of her personal effects or final communications. Standard elements of a suicide investigation, all absent.

Ezra's phone vibrated with a text message from an unknown number: "Van outside courthouse. Black Ford. Tinted windows. Watching main entrance."

He glanced at the basement windows that faced the street. From his angle, he could see only tire rims of a dark vehicle parked at the curb.

Another text arrived: "Go out back entrance by county clerk's office. I'll distract them. —D"

Dahlia. Somehow aware of both his location and the surveillance. Ezra quickly gathered his notes, returned the materials to the desk, and made his way to the suggested exit. Through a narrow window in the stairwell, he spotted Dahlia approaching the black van, a large coffee carrier in her hands. She appeared to trip, sending coffee splashing across the van's windshield.

Ezra slipped out the back entrance while the driver and passenger dealt with the "accident." He circled the building, keeping to covered walkways, and made it to his car without being spotted.

As he drove toward his office, his mind raced. The surveillance suggested his investigation had attracted serious attention. The partially hidden newspaper frame and the suspicious gaps in the coroner's report pointed to deliberate obscuring of evidence. The timing of Aria's disappearance during contract negotiations raised questions about financial motives.

Back in his office, Ezra had just enough time to add his findings to his investigation board before the Briggs family arrived. He pushed his Starlight Wanderers materials aside, focusing on the immediate case.

Tom and Helen Briggs sat uncomfortably in the client chairs while Ezra reviewed their information. Their son, Ryan, 17, had been missing for three days after telling them he was staying at a friend's house to work on a school project.

"The friend says Ryan never arrived," Helen explained, twisting a tissue in her hands. "His phone goes straight to voicemail. We've called everyone we can think of."

Tom Briggs, a carpenter whose calloused hands seemed too large for Ezra's pen, cleared his throat. "Sheriff says teenagers run off all the time. Told us to wait a week before filing a report."

"But it's not like Ryan," Helen insisted. "He's responsible. Gets good grades. He wouldn't just disappear."

"What was Ryan's state of mind before he left?" Ezra asked, taking notes.

The parents exchanged glances. "Excited," Tom said finally. "Said he'd found something valuable. Called it 'the message everyone's looking for.' We thought he meant for his school project."

Ezra's pen paused. "Did he mention what kind of message?"

"Something about vinyl records," Helen replied. "He's been collecting them for about a year now. Spends his lawn-mowing money at The Turntable."

"Vinyl records," Ezra repeated, keeping his tone neutral while his pulse quickened. "Did he mention any specific bands he collects?"

"Local stuff mostly. That band from the 90s—The Starlight Wanderers? He's obsessed with them." Tom shook his head. "Pays ridiculous prices for different pressings of the same album. Can't hear any difference myself."

"Different pressings," Ezra repeated. "Do you know which albums he was looking for most recently?"

"Something called 'Midnight Reverberations,'" Helen said. "He was very excited about finding what he called a 'first pressing, first batch' copy."

Ezra wrote this down, maintaining his professional demeanor while connections formed in his mind. "I'll need to see Ryan's room. And I'd like a list of his friends, particularly those who share his interest in vinyl collecting."

An hour later, Ezra stood in Ryan Briggs' bedroom, surveying the landscape of teenaged vinyl obsession. Record shelves covered one wall, each album in protective plastic. A turntable with high-end headphones sat on a desk otherwise cluttered with school books and collectible figures. Posters of classic rock bands shared wall space with a hand-drawn diagram that immediately captured Ezra's attention.

It was a chart tracking different pressings of Starlight Wanderers albums, with photocopied images of dead wax markings and transcribed messages. Ryan had attempted to arrange them in some logical sequence, with arrows connecting fragments. In the center, a question mark labeled "The Complete Message???" was circled repeatedly in red ink.

"My son's always been thorough with his hobbies," Tom said from the doorway. "Takes after his mother that way."

"When did he start this particular project?" Ezra asked, photographing the chart with his phone.

"Few months back, after he met some collector online. Guy claimed to have decoded the dead wax messages." Tom stepped into the room, lowering his voice. "We monitored his online activity—parent's duty these days. The collector used some username about vinyl ghosts or something."

"VinylSpecter?" Ezra guessed, recalling a forum handle he'd seen mentioned on collector sites.

"That's it." Tom looked surprised. "You know him?"

"I've come across the name in my research." Ezra examined Ryan's desk drawers, finding a notebook filled with detailed observations of different record pressings. "Did Ryan mention meeting this person in real life?"

"Not to us. But his computer might tell you more."

Ezra spent twenty minutes examining Ryan's laptop, finding a pattern of communications with VinylSpecter that evolved from general collector discussions to private messages arranging a meeting. The final exchange, dated the day Ryan disappeared, specified a location outside Westin—an abandoned record store that had once distributed independent releases.

"I need to check this location," Ezra told the Briggs. "In the meantime, try calling this number." He handed them a card. "Cecil at The Turntable. Tell him Ezra sent you and ask if Ryan's contacted him about any rare finds recently."

After they left, Ezra stared at his dual investigation boards. The missing teenager case now directly intersected with his Starlight Wanderers research. Ryan Briggs had been pursuing the same dead wax message sequence that Ezra was trying to decode, apparently believing he'd found a crucial piece—possibly a pressing containing the complete message VinylSpecter had mentioned.

The afternoon sky darkened as Ezra drove toward Westin. Weather reports had warned of a severe spring storm system moving through the valley, and the clouds massing over the mountains confirmed the forecast. He needed to locate the abandoned record store and hopefully find some trace of Ryan before the weather deteriorated completely.

The former Tone Arm Records sat in a strip mall that had seen better decades, its windows covered with faded newspaper and tattered band posters. A "For Lease" sign hung crooked in the door, the realtor's phone number long since bleached illegible by the sun.

Ezra parked across the street, watching for movement or signs of recent entry. The strip mall's other businesses—a tax preparation service, vape shop, and laundromat—showed minimal activity. After twenty minutes of observation, he approached the record store's rear entrance, noting scuff marks on the concrete suggesting the door had been recently used despite the official closure.

The back door's lock had been professionally picked—not crowbarred or forced, but cleanly bypassed by someone with skills. Ezra used his own lockpicks, a remnant of his corporate security training, to gain entry.

Inside, the abandoned store smelled of mildew and decaying cardboard. Empty record shelves lined the walls, and dust-covered listening stations stood like retail ghosts. But one area showed signs of recent use—a back office where the dust had been disturbed and takeout coffee cups sat on a metal desk.

"Ryan?" Ezra called. "Ryan Briggs?"

Silence answered him. He examined the office carefully, finding scratch paper with notes comparing pressing variants and what appeared to be a meeting schedule with usernames—VinylSpecter, WaxHunter, GrooveTracker.

A underground network of vinyl traders, operating from abandoned locations.

Thunder rumbled overhead as Ezra continued his search. In the employees' bathroom, he found a backpack tucked behind the toilet. Inside were school books with Ryan Briggs' name, a change of clothes, and—most significantly—a protective record sleeve containing a Starlight Wanderers album.

Ezra carefully removed the vinyl, holding it up to the dim light from a high window. The pressing appeared to be "Midnight Reverberations," and the dead wax contained an extensive message that continued over nearly the entire silent area—far more text than any other pressing he'd seen.

He photographed it with his phone, then carefully returned the record to its sleeve. The backpack suggested Ryan had been here recently but had left in a hurry, abandoning his belongings. Not the behavior of someone who had run away permanently.

Rain began pelting the building's roof as Ezra continued searching. A door at the back of the office led to a small storage room that had been converted into a makeshift trading post—folding tables, chairs, and a portable record player for authentication purposes. Pinned to the wall was a map marking similar locations throughout the region, each labeled with meeting times and trader designations.

As Ezra studied the map, his phone vibrated with a call—Tom Briggs.

"Mr. Patel," Tom's voice carried nervous relief. "Ryan just called us. He's at Cecil's store. Said something about hiding from people who were following him after he found a record they wanted."

"Is he all right?"

"Seems to be. Cecil's keeping him there until we arrive."

"Tell him not to leave. I'll meet you there as soon as possible."

The storm intensified as Ezra drove back toward Covenridge, windshield wipers struggling against the downpour. Lightning split the sky in jagged bursts, followed by thunder that rattled his car windows. The radio crackled with emergency alerts—flash flood warnings for low-lying areas, including parts of downtown Covenridge.

By the time he reached The Turntable, Main Street had become a shallow river. He parked as close as possible, then dashed through ankle-deep water to the store's entrance.

Inside, Cecil stood behind the counter while Ryan Briggs sat nearby, looking simultaneously excited and terrified. His parents hovered protectively on either side.

"There he is," Cecil said as Ezra entered, shaking water from his jacket. "The PI who helped us find you."

Ryan—lanky, with glasses and an oversized Ramones t-shirt—studied Ezra warily. "You're the guy who's been buying up Wanderers pressings."

"And you're the kid who found what might be a complete message in the dead wax," Ezra replied. "Want to tell me why that made you hide out in an abandoned record store?"

Ryan glanced at his parents. "It sounds crazy."

"Try me."

"A few months ago, I connected with this collector online—VinylSpecter. He said he was documenting all the dead wax messages from Starlight Wanderers pressings, trying to assemble the complete text." Ryan's words tumbled out faster. "He claimed Maxwell Richards embedded coded warnings across different pressings so that no single record contained the full message. A way to reveal contract problems without triggering legal action from the label."

Cecil nodded. "Smart approach. Dead wax messages weren't covered by recording contracts back then. Technical gray area."

"VinylSpecter had most of the fragments," Ryan continued, "but was missing the key pressing that supposedly contained the longest section. When I found a copy at a garage sale in Westin, I messaged him about it."

"And then?" Ezra prompted.

"He arranged to meet at Tone Arm. But when I got there, it wasn't just him. Two other guys were there—older men in suits. They got really intense about seeing the record, asked where I'd found it, if there were others." Ryan's voice dropped. "They offered me five thousand dollars for it. When I hesitated, one of them stepped out to make a phone call. I heard him mention Meridian Records, and something about 'controlling the narrative.'"

"So you ran," Ezra concluded.

Ryan nodded. "Left my backpack and hid out at my friend Dave's place. He wasn't supposed to tell anyone, but I got worried my parents would call the police."

"Did these men see the record? The dead wax message?"

"No. I told them I'd bring it to the next meeting. That's when I decided to come to Cecil instead." Ryan gestured to the store owner. "He confirmed it's legitimate—a test pressing that shouldn't even exist outside the studio."

Cecil adjusted his glasses. "It's one of the mythical 'complete message' pressings collectors have been hunting for decades. The dead wax text runs nearly the entire silent area. I've only seen photographs of similar copies."

"Where is it now?" Ezra asked.

Ryan reached into his jacket and produced a record sleeve. "I've been carrying it with me. Too afraid to leave it anywhere."

Cecil took the record with reverent hands, bringing it to the counter's light. "May I?"

The teenager nodded.

Cecil carefully removed the vinyl, examining the dead wax area with a magnifying glass. "Remarkable. The etching quality suggests this was done directly by the cutting engineer, not as part of the automated process."

"What does it say?" Tom Briggs asked.

"It's technical language about contract terms, mostly," Cecil replied, squinting through the glass. "Warning about rights reversion clauses, royalty calculations, and something about 'death transfer provisions.' Not exactly the mystical message some collectors expected."

Ezra's mind connected to the coroner's report. "Death transfer provisions?"

"Standard in predatory contracts back then," Cecil explained. "If an artist died, all rights reverted to the label immediately. Meridian was notorious for these clauses."

Ryan frowned. "So it's just boring legal stuff? VinylSpecter made it sound like some huge revelation."

"To the right people, it would be," Ezra said. "Evidence of questionable contract terms, preserved in vinyl, outside official documentation. Proof that the band knew they were being exploited and tried to warn others."

Thunder boomed overhead, rattling the shop windows. The lights flickered once, twice, then plunged the store into darkness.

"Power's out," Cecil announced unnecessarily. "Generator should kick in for the security system, but we're on flashlights otherwise."

"We should get Ryan home," Helen said. "Before the roads flood completely."

Cecil handed the record back to Ryan. "Keep that safe. Once this storm passes, we should properly document it."

As the Briggs family prepared to leave, Ezra pulled Ryan aside. "VinylSpecter—did he ever give you a real name or location?"

"No. But he knew a lot about the band. Talked about them like he'd known them personally." Ryan hesitated. "He said something weird in his last message. That the dead wax was just confirmation of what 'she' had tried to reveal at the river."

"She?" Ezra pressed.

"Aria, I guess. He wasn't specific." Ryan zipped the record carefully inside his jacket. "Is this really worth people following me around?"

"To some people, controlling information is worth considerable effort," Ezra replied. "Be careful with that record. And maybe stay off collector forums for a while."

After the Briggs family left, Cecil lit several emergency candles, their warm glow creating islands of light in the darkened store.

"You should probably go too," he told Ezra. "Storm's only getting worse."

"The kid's record—you recognized what it was immediately."

Cecil arranged candles on the counter. "I've been hunting for that pressing for twenty years. One of maybe five copies that escaped destruction."

"Destruction?"

"There was a fire at Maxwell's studio in late 1991. Destroyed master tapes, production notes, and most test pressings." Cecil's face looked haunted in the candlelight. "Officially ruled as electrical, but it happened one week after Meridian won a lawsuit fully securing rights to the catalog."

Ezra absorbed this information as another piece of the pattern. "Did any other copies of that test pressing survive?"

"Rumors of one at the pressing plant. Another in a private collection in Seattle." Cecil glanced toward the window where rain streamed down like a waterfall. "And supposedly, Mrs. Abbott has one she's never played."

Lightning illuminated Main Street, revealing water now halfway up car tires. Ezra checked his phone—no signal, as expected during major storms.

"I'd better go before I'm stranded here," he said, zipping his jacket.

"Good luck. And Ezra?" Cecil's expression turned serious. "The people who wanted Ryan's record? They'll want yours too, once they realize what you're assembling."

Outside, the rain fell in horizontal sheets driven by howling wind. Ezra pulled his jacket over his head and ran toward his car, only to find water already reaching the door handles. Attempting to drive through flooded streets would risk stalling out.

He looked up and down Main Street, gauging his options. Most businesses were dark, closing early when the power failed. Only two buildings showed signs of light—Dahlia's coffee shop and, further down, the warm glow of candles in Mrs. Abbott's bookstore.

The bookstore was closer. Ezra splashed through the deepening water, arriving at Resonant Pages soaked to the skin. He pounded on the door, rain streaming from his hair into his eyes.

The door opened to reveal Mrs. Abbott holding an oil lamp, her silver-streaked hair loose around her shoulders. She wore a concerned expression that shifted to resignation when she recognized him.

"Of course it would be you," she said, stepping aside. "Come in before you drown."

The bookstore's interior glowed with candlelight, creating shadows that danced between the bookshelves. The familiar lavender scent mingled with burning wax and the earthy smell of old books.

"Power's been out for twenty minutes," Mrs. Abbott explained, leading him toward the back room. "Might be hours before they restore it. The valley floods every spring, but this storm is particularly fierce."

In the back room, more candles created a circle of light around the familiar leather chairs. A cast iron kettle bubbled on a small camping stove.

"You're soaked through," she observed. "There's a blanket on the shelf behind you. I'll make tea."

Ezra removed his dripping jacket and wrapped the offered blanket around his shoulders. The warmth was immediate and welcome. Through the rain-lashed windows, lightning periodically illuminated the flooded street.

"Thank you," he said as she handed him a steaming mug. "I couldn't make it back to my apartment."

"The storm or Ryan Briggs drove you to my door?" Mrs. Abbott asked, settling into the chair opposite him.

Ezra's surprise must have shown on his face, because she smiled slightly.

"Cecil called me when the boy arrived at his shop. This town has no secrets, Ezra, only different levels of disclosure."

"The record Ryan found⁠—"

"A test pressing with the complete dead wax message about Meridian's contract terms." She sipped her tea calmly. "One of the few that escaped Victor Strand's systematic efforts to destroy evidence."

"You knew about this?"

"Of course I knew." The candlelight caught the amber flecks in her dark eyes, so like those in the photograph of Aria. "I was there when Maxwell etched those messages. A futile effort to warn other artists about what they'd experienced."

Thunder boomed overhead, rattling the windows. Rain pounded the roof with increasing intensity, creating a constant roar that muffled all outside sounds. They were isolated in a bubble of candlelight, cut off from the world by the storm's fury.

"Mrs. Abbott," Ezra began carefully, "who was Aria to you?"

She set down her tea, studying him across the flickering light. When she spoke, her voice carried a different quality—lower, less formal, traces of an accent she usually suppressed.

"You've already guessed, haven't you? The photograph made it obvious to anyone paying attention."

"I have theories. I'd prefer the truth directly from you."

Mrs. Abbott—Isadora—reached behind her chair to a shelf, retrieving a leather-bound book. She opened it to reveal not pages but a hidden compartment containing a single photograph.

She handed it to Ezra. The image showed a much younger Isadora in a hospital bed, holding a newborn infant. Beside her sat Maxwell Richards, his arm around her shoulders, both of them gazing at the child with unmistakable parental wonder.

"Aria was my daughter," Mrs. Abbott said simply. "Born Aria Abbott Richards, though the latter name never appeared on official documents. Maxwell refused public acknowledgment of paternity, though he never denied it privately."

The confession hung in the air between them, illuminated by candlelight and punctuated by thunder. The storm isolated them in this moment of truth, creating a confessional space where long-buried secrets could finally surface.

"And now," Mrs. Abbott continued, her eyes reflecting candlelight and something more complex, "you understand why this isn't merely historical curiosity for me. It's my daughter's legacy—and her justice—that your investigation threatens to either reveal or further obscure."

Lightning flashed, painting the room in stark white before returning it to the warm, shadowed intimacy of candles. The storm outside intensified, but the revelation inside created its own kind of thunder—the sound of truth finally breaking free after thirty years of careful silence.

The confession hung between them as thunder rattled the bookstore windows. Mrs. Abbott—Isadora—reclaimed the photograph from Ezra's hands, her fingers tracing the edges with practiced familiarity.

"You've suspected for some time," she said. It wasn't a question.

"The resemblance was striking," Ezra replied, watching her carefully. "Same eyes. Similar features. But I wasn't certain until now."

Rain drummed against the roof with renewed intensity. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room, casting sharp shadows before returning them to the warm, unsteady glow of candlelight.

"Well, now you know." Mrs. Abbott set her teacup down with deliberate precision. "Does this satisfy your investigative curiosity, or shall we continue this in the morning when the storm passes?"

"That depends," Ezra said, leaning forward. "Is there more you're willing to show me tonight?"

She studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable in the flickering light. Then she rose from her chair with sudden decision.

"You've earned this much, I suppose." She moved to the far wall, where a bookshelf seemed unremarkable among many others. "I was going to show you eventually. The storm merely accelerated my timeline."

Her fingers pressed against the shelf's edge in a pattern that suggested routine. With a soft click, the entire unit swung outward, revealing a hidden doorway.

"The building was once a private residence," she explained, lifting her oil lamp. "This was originally a servant's stairway to the upper floor. Now it leads to my apartment and... other things."

Ezra followed her through the narrow passage and up a steep staircase. The walls were lined with framed concert posters, album covers, and black-and-white photographs—a visual timeline of The Starlight Wanderers' brief career.

At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Abbott unlocked a heavy wooden door that opened into her private living space. Unlike the carefully curated public areas of the bookstore, this room felt genuinely lived-in—comfortable furniture, shelves overflowing with books, handwoven blankets draped across chairs.

"Through here," she directed, crossing to another door.

The room she led him into was considerably smaller, with no windows and walls entirely lined with shelving. Unlike the main apartment, this space had the feeling of a climate-controlled archive. Mrs. Abbott placed her lamp on a central table, its light revealing meticulously organized boxes, albums, and journals.

"My private collection," she said, her voice softening. "Thirty years of preservation."

Ezra stood still, taking in the scale of her archival work. Each shelf contained labeled containers organized chronologically, the handwritten dates spanning from the mid-1980s through the present.

"This is... extraordinary," he said finally.

"It's incomplete." Mrs. Abbott ran her fingers along a shelf edge. "Much was lost in the studio fire. Other pieces disappeared when Maxwell retreated from the world. But what could be salvaged, I preserved."

She selected a large album from a nearby shelf and placed it on the table. The leather cover was worn smooth with handling, its pages visibly thicker than a standard photo album.

"This is where it began," she said, opening to the first page.

Ezra moved closer as candlelight illuminated a photograph of a much younger Isadora Abbott—hair long and dark, face unlined—standing outside a small music venue with a guitar slung across her back. The date written beneath read "June 1978."

"You were a musician too," he observed.

"I was many things before I was Mrs. Abbott." She turned the page. "I documented the folk music revival along the West Coast. Not just as observer but participant."

The pages revealed a young woman deeply embedded in a vibrant music scene—performing on small stages, sitting in recording sessions, traveling with various bands. Several photos showed her writing in journals, camera in hand, clearly documenting the world around her.

"When did you meet Maxwell?" Ezra asked.

Mrs. Abbott's finger pointed to a specific image—herself sitting on a beach beside a young man with familiar features, both of them holding guitars, laughing at something outside the frame.

"Oregon coast, 1970. He was playing in coffee houses, developing his sound. I was following the music, chronicling the movement." Her voice took on a different quality, lighter, with hints of the young woman in the photographs. "He had an extraordinary ear even then. Could hear harmonics others missed, frequencies that shaped sound in unique ways."

As she turned pages, the story unfolded visually—their relationship developing across venues and festivals, Maxwell's growing reputation as both musician and producer, the beginnings of what would become his riverside studio.

"When did you learn you were pregnant?" Ezra asked.

"Monterey Folk Festival, spring of 1972." Mrs. Abbott's finger traced a photograph of herself looking thoughtfully into the distance, hand resting on a slightly rounded stomach. "I was nineteen. Maxwell was twenty-two and beginning to attract serious attention from record labels."

"And he didn't want a child complicating his career."

Her laugh held no humor. "He didn't want the responsibility. The connection with me was acceptable as long as it remained... artistic. A child demanded more than he was willing to give."

She turned to a new section—photographs of Aria as an infant, then toddler, always with her mother, occasionally with Maxwell in carefully staged settings. The progression showed a child growing up surrounded by music—sitting in recording sessions, playing with instruments, watching performances from sidestage.

"She was extraordinary from the beginning," Mrs. Abbott said, her voice softening. "Perfect pitch by age four. Could harmonize naturally by five. Maxwell couldn't ignore her talent, even if he refused to publicly acknowledge her as his daughter."

"Yet he was involved in her life," Ezra noted, seeing images of Maxwell teaching young Aria guitar chords, adjusting microphones for her.

"On his terms. As mentor, not father." Mrs. Abbott's finger tapped a particular photograph—Maxwell and Aria, perhaps age ten, sitting at a mixing board, her face illuminated with concentration. "He would spend hours teaching her about sound engineering, performance techniques, musical theory. Then disappear for months when touring or working with other artists."

"That must have been confusing for her."

"Devastating." Mrs. Abbott turned another page. "She understood from very young that he valued her talent but not enough to claim her. The musical connection became both their strongest bond and the source of deepest pain."

The album's middle section chronicled Aria's teenage years—performing at local venues, developing her distinctive style, gradually being incorporated into Maxwell's sessions. The physical resemblance between father and daughter became increasingly striking—the same eyes, similar expressions, identical way of tilting their heads when listening intently.

"When did she officially join The Starlight Wanderers?" Ezra asked.

"She never 'joined' in the conventional sense." Mrs. Abbott opened a different album. "The band formed around Maxwell when he established the riverside studio. Other musicians came and went, but he was always the center. Aria began contributing background vocals at sixteen, mainly because her voice had qualities he couldn't find elsewhere."

This album contained professional photographs—publicity shots, performance images, studio sessions. Aria's progression from background vocalist to featured performer was visible in her gradual movement from the edges to the center of these compositions.

"By seventeen, she had become essential to their sound," Mrs. Abbott continued. "Maxwell still introduced her simply as 'Aria'—no last name, no acknowledgment of relationship. But anyone with eyes could see the truth."

She reached for a smaller box, removing several sheets of handwritten lyrics. Aria's handwriting was distinctive—flowing and precise, with musical notations in the margins.

"Her songwriting emerged alongside her voice," Mrs. Abbott explained. "Maxwell recognized her talent but controlled which pieces were recorded, how they were arranged. The creative relationship became increasingly complex."

Ezra studied the lyric sheets, noting emotional themes of recognition, invisible connections, and truth hidden beneath surfaces. The parallels to Aria's personal situation seemed unmistakable.

"These never made it onto records," Mrs. Abbott said, indicating several sheets. "Too personal, too revealing. Maxwell claimed they weren't 'accessible enough' for their audience."

"Did she accept that?"

"Initially. She was young, eager for his approval." Mrs. Abbott's expression hardened. "As she matured, she began challenging his decisions. Insisted certain songs be included, particular messages preserved."

She reached for another box, removing a small journal bound in purple leather. "This was Aria's, from the months before her death. I've never shown it to anyone."

Ezra accepted it carefully, aware of the trust this represented. The pages contained not just song lyrics and personal reflections but detailed documentation of business meetings, contract terms, and conversations with record executives.

"She was tracking the exploitation," he realized.

"Methodically. Like her mother, she was both artist and chronicler." Mrs. Abbott pointed to specific entries. "Notice how she documents Victor Strand's promises versus contract language. She was building a case, gathering evidence."

Ezra turned pages, finding increasingly urgent entries about contract provisions, royalty calculations, and ownership rights. One passage caught his attention:

"M. finally admitted the death clause exists. All rights revert to Meridian if any primary band member dies, with no reversion to heirs. When I asked if he'd signed away my future, he couldn't meet my eyes. Said what's done is done. Reminded him I never signed anything. He said it doesn't matter what I sign or don't—I'm legally just a 'featured performer' not a member. My voice sells their records but my name appears nowhere in their contracts. Convenient for everyone but me."

"These read like legal research more than a creative journal," Ezra observed.

"She was fighting for control of her own voice." Mrs. Abbott reclaimed the journal. "By nineteen, she understood exactly how the industry worked. Maxwell had inadvertently taught her the mechanics of exploitation through his own compromises."

Thunder cracked overhead, momentarily drowning conversation. When it subsided, Mrs. Abbott reached for a folder containing photographs of performances at the Starlight Music Hall. The images showed Aria's evolution as a performer—from hesitant teenager to commanding presence at center stage.

"The final concert," she said, separating several photos from the others. "October 14, 1990."

These images captured a different energy—Aria with eyes closed in intense concentration, hand gestures that suggested both plea and defiance, facial expressions ranging from ethereal to fierce. Even in still photographs, the emotional intensity was palpable.

"She knew it would be the last performance," Mrs. Abbott said quietly. "Not because she planned to die, but because she intended to leave—both the band and Covenridge."

"Leave? To go where?"

"She had connected with independent producers in Seattle. Artists who operated outside traditional label structures." Mrs. Abbott removed a folded letter from between the photos. "This arrived two days after she disappeared. Postmarked October 15—the day before she allegedly jumped."

The letter, written on Seattle studio letterhead, confirmed recording sessions scheduled for late October. The final paragraph read: "Looking forward to working with you as a solo artist. Your demos demonstrate exactly the authentic voice we're seeking. As discussed, all rights remain with you as creator, with our studio simply providing technical support and distribution channels."

"She had an escape plan," Ezra said, the implications crystallizing.

"She had options Maxwell never gave her—artistic freedom, proper attribution, fair compensation." Mrs. Abbott carefully refolded the letter. "And a path away from a father who wouldn't claim her and an industry that sought to own her voice."

"But something happened at the river before she could leave."

Mrs. Abbott's face tightened as she returned the letter to its place. "Something happened at Maxwell's cottage during that contract meeting. Whether she ever reached the river is a question I've lived with for thirty years."

She moved to another shelf, retrieving a collection of vinyl records stored in archival-quality sleeves. "Each album tells part of her story. But the final chapter was written in the dead wax—the margins where corporate control couldn't reach."

"The messages about contract terms," Ezra said. "They were Aria's doing?"

"Her idea, Maxwell's technical implementation." Mrs. Abbott held up a specific record. "This test pressing contains the complete message she composed—detailed warnings about contract structures, rights exploitation, and control mechanisms. The master was destroyed in the studio fire, but a few copies survived."

"Like Ryan Briggs found."

"Yes." Mrs. Abbott's hands traced the record's edge. "Aria created different fragments for different pressings—ensuring the complete message couldn't be easily suppressed but could be reconstructed by those paying attention. My copy originally contained the most personal section—not about contracts but about her relationship with Maxwell."

"The message that was removed," Ezra realized.

Mrs. Abbott nodded. "It read: 'To the father who values my voice but not my existence—I reclaim both for myself. No signature can transfer what was never yours to sell.'"

"Who removed it?"

"Maxwell." She didn't sound angry, merely resigned. "Years later, when collectors began assembling the fragments. He claimed he was protecting her privacy. Perhaps he was protecting himself."

Ezra studied the arc of memorabilia spread across the table—the visual narrative of a young woman's evolution from talented child to artist fighting for autonomy. The careful preservation spoke of Mrs. Abbott's devotion, while the selective editing revealed conscious curation of painful memories.

"Your bookstore," he said, the realization suddenly clear. "The organization system—it's arranged according to your emotional journey with Aria."

Mrs. Abbott's expression softened with surprise. "You've made that connection."

"Books grouped by emotional resonance rather than category. The patterns map to your experiences—joy, discovery, loss, preservation." Ezra gestured toward the memorabilia. "You've created a physical manifestation of memory, both in this room and throughout the store."

"Perhaps I have." Her eyes held something like appreciation. "Most people see eccentric organization. You see the intention beneath."

"That's my job—finding patterns others miss."

"And what pattern do you see in Aria's death?" she asked, voice steadying.

Ezra considered carefully. "A young woman with documented plans to leave, legal understanding of exploitative contracts, and evidence of conflict with record executives. Her death conveniently transferred all rights to the label while silencing her challenges."

"Yes." The single word carried decades of suspicion.

"Why haven't you pursued this before now?" Ezra asked. "With all this evidence⁠—"

"Evidence of what, exactly?" Mrs. Abbott's tone sharpened. "Unethical contracts? Those were perfectly legal. Maxwell's refusal to acknowledge paternity? Morally reprehensible but not criminal. Suspicious timing? Circumstantial at best."

She began carefully returning items to their proper places, her movements deliberate despite the dim light.

"I've spent thirty years preserving what remains of her voice, her truth. Letting that be enough." Her hands smoothed album covers with maternal tenderness. "Perhaps that was cowardice disguised as acceptance. Perhaps it was survival."

The storm outside had begun to subside, the thunder now distant rumbles rather than immediate crashes. Candlelight flickered as Mrs. Abbott closed albums and replaced boxes with archival precision.

"There's something else you should see," she said, retrieving a final folder from a high shelf. "Something I've never shared."

Inside was a single photograph—clearly taken at Singer's Fall, but not the section tourists visited. The image showed a natural stone formation creating a small shelter beside the river, partially hidden by vegetation. Inside this alcove, someone had arranged a sleeping bag, small lantern, and backpack.

"I took this three days after she disappeared," Mrs. Abbott said quietly. "While search parties focused downstream. This spot was where Aria often went to write when she needed solitude. Accessible only if you knew exactly where to step along the bank."

Ezra studied the photograph carefully. "A campsite."

"With her journal missing from her room, her traveling bag gone from the closet." Mrs. Abbott's voice remained steady. "By the time I returned the next day, everything had been removed. The area appeared completely untouched."

"Did you tell the authorities?"

"I told Allen Merrick. He said I was a grieving mother searching for hope where none existed." Her fingers traced the edge of the photograph. "Two days later, he officially ruled her death a suicide."

"You believe she was planning to hide there."

"I believe she needed a safe place between leaving Maxwell's cottage and departing for Seattle." Mrs. Abbott returned the photograph to its folder. "Whether she reached that shelter, whether someone else discovered it—those questions have haunted me for thirty years."

Ezra absorbed this new information, connecting it with other elements of his investigation. The photograph provided physical evidence supporting an alternate narrative to the suicide ruling—not proof of what happened, but proof that Aria had prepared for something other than death.

"Do you know why she went to Maxwell's cottage that day?" he asked. "During the contract meeting?"

"She never told me her plans," Mrs. Abbott admitted. "We had talked about her Seattle opportunity, but she was protective of details. Didn't want me involved if things became complicated with Meridian Records."

She closed the final folder and returned it to its shelf. "I believe she went to confront them—Maxwell, Strand, the lawyers. To declare her independence before leaving. Whether she succeeded..."

The unfinished sentence hung in the air between them.

Outside, the rain had softened to a gentle patter. Mrs. Abbott gathered her lamp, preparing to lead the way back downstairs.

"We should return to the main floor," she said. "It's late, and you've been given much to consider."

As they descended the stairs, Ezra noted how carefully Mrs. Abbott locked the hidden room behind them. The motion seemed both protective and habitual—a custodian securing precious archives.

Back in the bookstore's main room, the candles had burned considerably lower. Through the windows, the flooded street reflected distant lightning from the departing storm.

"You'll need to stay until morning," Mrs. Abbott said practically. "The waters won't recede until dawn. There's a day bed in the reading nook you can use."

Ezra nodded, still processing everything he'd seen. "Thank you. For showing me all this."

"Don't thank me yet." She adjusted a candle that had begun to gutter. "Knowledge brings responsibility. You now possess pieces of a story few others have seen in its entirety. What you do with that knowledge will have consequences—for Maxwell, for me, for this town, and most importantly, for Aria's memory."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Her gaze was penetrating in the dim light. "Thirty years ago, my daughter tried to reclaim her voice from those who sought to control it. The effort cost her everything. Be certain, Mr. Patel, that your investigation honors that courage rather than exploiting it."

As she moved away to prepare the reading nook, Ezra stood in the center of the bookstore, suddenly aware of the surrounding shelves in a new light. Every book placement, every thematic grouping represented not just abstract "emotional resonance" but specific chapters in Mrs. Abbott's life with Aria.

The mysteries section where he'd spent childhood Saturdays wasn't just about puzzles and detection—it contained volumes exploring truth obscured by power, voices silenced by authority, justice delayed but not denied. Mrs. Abbott's entire life's work surrounded him, hidden in plain sight behind the façade of a simple bookstore.

Outside, the storm continued its slow retreat from Covenridge, leaving behind flooded streets and uprooted certainties. Inside, among carefully arranged books and slowly diminishing candles, Ezra faced the growing conviction that Aria's death had never been properly investigated—and that his unofficial obsession had become something far more significant than he'd anticipated.

The grooves of memory, like those on the vinyl records Mrs. Abbott preserved, contained truths that remained legible decades after their creation—if one knew how to play them back correctly.

Morning light filtered through the bookstore windows, illuminating floating dust motes and revealing the aftermath of the previous night's storm. Ezra sat up on the day bed in Mrs. Abbott's reading nook, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. The events of the previous night came rushing back—the flooding, the storm, and most significantly, Mrs. Abbott's revelations about her daughter.

He folded the blanket she had provided and stepped into the main area of the bookstore. The electricity had returned; a small desk lamp cast a warm glow over the checkout counter where Mrs. Abbott stood sorting through water-damaged paperwork.

"The streets are passable again," she said without looking up. "Though your car may need attention."

Ezra moved to the window. Outside, Main Street resembled the aftermath of a small invasion—debris scattered across sidewalks, shopkeepers sweeping muddy water from their entryways. His car sat where he'd left it, surrounded by a moat of receding floodwater.

"Thank you for the shelter," he said, turning back to her. "And for sharing what you did."

Mrs. Abbott finally met his gaze, her expression composed but guarded. "I trust you'll handle the information appropriately."

"I will." Ezra hesitated, then added, "I'd like to hear the complete message—the test pressing you mentioned."

"Some other time, perhaps." She returned to her paperwork. "I have a business to salvage, and you have a missing teenager case to resolve."

The firm dismissal was clear. Whatever door had opened during the storm had closed with the morning light—not locked, but certainly not standing wide.

"I'll be in touch," Ezra said, moving toward the door.

"Mr. Patel." Mrs. Abbott's voice stopped him. "The radio station—WCVR. Jenna broadcasts 'Needle Drops' tonight at 10:00 pm. She knows more about The Starlight Wanderers' recordings than anyone except Cecil and Maxwell himself."

Ezra nodded. "I'll tune in."

"Better yet, visit in person." Mrs. Abbott returned to her inventory sheets. "Tell her you're interested in acoustic variability across different pressings. She appreciates technical curiosity."

Outside, the morning air felt freshly scrubbed by the storm. Ezra sloshed through puddles toward his car, noting with relief that the water level had dropped enough to spare his vehicle serious damage. The engine sputtered briefly before catching, and he navigated carefully around debris as he made his way back to his apartment.

After showering and changing into fresh clothes, Ezra headed to his office. The hardware store below was closed for storm cleanup, but Hargrove had left a note taped to the stairwell door: "Pipes held. Your office is dry. Coffee maker survived. —H"

The small gesture of neighborly concern felt unexpectedly warming. Ezra found his office indeed dry, though the windows showed streaks from wind-driven rain. His first order of business was calling the Briggs family to arrange a final debriefing about their son's case.

An hour later, Tom and Helen Briggs sat across from his desk, Ryan between them, looking equal parts embarrassed and relieved.

"So," Ezra began, opening his case file, "I think we need to formally close this investigation with a clear understanding of what happened."

Ryan fidgeted with the zipper of his hoodie. "I already explained about VinylSpecter and the record."

"You did," Ezra acknowledged. "But there are still questions about your decision to disappear rather than contact your parents."

"I was scared," Ryan admitted, glancing at his mother. "Those guys at Tone Arm seemed really serious about getting that record. When I heard them mention Meridian Records, I remembered all the forum posts about how aggressively they protect their catalog rights."

"What exactly made you hide rather than just come home?" Ezra pressed.

Ryan looked down. "VinylSpecter warned me before our meeting. Said if I found a complete message pressing, I should trust no one because 'they still monitor these things decades later.' I thought he was being dramatic until those suits showed up."

Tom Briggs cleared his throat. "Cecil at The Turntable confirmed the record is unusual but not actually rare enough to justify Ryan's... extreme reaction."

"Actually," Ezra said carefully, "Cecil was being diplomatic. The record is genuinely significant—a test pressing with technical information about contract terms that the label would prefer remained obscure. Not illegal to possess, but potentially embarrassing to Meridian if widely publicized."

Helen gasped. "You mean those men were actually⁠—"

"Probably just collectors or company representatives," Ezra interrupted, not wanting to alarm the family unnecessarily. "But Ryan's caution wasn't entirely unwarranted."

He turned to the teenager. "That said, going off-grid was excessive and caused your parents considerable distress. The appropriate response would have been to come home and, if necessary, seek proper legal advice."

Ryan nodded, properly chastened. "I know. I just panicked."

"What should he do with the record now?" Tom asked.

"Keep it, but perhaps be less public about possessing it," Ezra suggested. "And I'd recommend stepping back from collector forums for a while, especially any communication with VinylSpecter."

"Already deleted my account," Ryan confirmed.

Ezra closed the file with finality. "Then I consider this case resolved. Ryan is safe, the situation is understood, and appropriate precautions have been identified."

After the Briggs family left, Ezra updated his case records and filed the paperwork in his completed cases drawer. The legitimate case had intersected with his unofficial investigation in unexpected ways, providing confirmation that Meridian Records still actively monitored discussions about The Starlight Wanderers' dead wax messages.

The rest of the day passed with mundane professional tasks—following up with Lucille Parker about her insurance claim, drafting a report for his contractor client, and organizing receipts for his business expenses. By evening, his office looked properly professional again, though the investigation board on the right wall continued to expand with connections and questions about Aria's death.

At 9:30 pm, Ezra locked his office and headed toward the edge of town where the WCVR station operated from a converted bungalow. The building sat on a slight rise, its single transmission tower silhouetted against the night sky like an exclamation point. A small neon sign glowed in the window: "ON AIR."

The station's front door opened into a cramped reception area decorated with framed album covers and vintage concert posters. A handwritten sign directed visitors to: "KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING DURING BROADCAST."

Ezra rapped gently on the studio door. Through the glass panel, he could see a woman with short-cropped silver hair and oversized headphones sitting at a control board lined with switches and dials. She glanced up, raising one finger in a "one moment" gesture before flipping a switch.

"That was The Decemberists with 'June Hymn,' a track that captures our valley's summer atmosphere with uncanny precision," she spoke into a microphone suspended from the ceiling. "You're listening to 'Needle Drops' on WCVR, where we explore the deeper grooves of musical history. I'm Jenna Rollins, and we're about to dive into our nightly exploration of rare vinyl treasures, but first, it seems we have a visitor."

She beckoned Ezra in, pointing to a chair beside her while continuing to speak. "Tonight's focus is acoustic variability across vinyl pressings—how the same recording can sound distinctly different depending on when and where the record was manufactured. Stay with us."

She pressed a button, and music began playing through the studio monitors. Removing her headphones, she extended her hand to Ezra.

"Jenna Rollins. You must be Ezra Patel. Isadora called to say you might stop by."

"Isadora?" Ezra asked, momentarily confused.

"Mrs. Abbott," Jenna clarified with a knowing smile. "Some of us still use her real name. Old habits."

"Thanks for letting me observe your program," Ezra said, taking the offered seat.

"Observe? Oh no, you're participating." Jenna adjusted a dial on her board. "We're discussing pressing variations tonight, which I understand is your current obsession. This song runs three minutes and forty seconds. Tell me what you really want to know so I can decide how much to say on air."

Ezra blinked at her directness. "I'm interested in the dead wax messages on The Starlight Wanderers' albums."

"Of course you are." Jenna checked a monitor showing the time remaining on the current track. "Everyone who digs into Covenridge's musical history eventually arrives at that particular rabbit hole. Two minutes fifteen. Be specific."

"I want to know if anyone has assembled the complete message sequence, and whether any pressings exist that contain the entire text rather than fragments."

Jenna's expression shifted from professional interest to something more guarded. "Dangerous question. One minute thirty. You understand why this matters to people beyond collectors, yes?"

"I'm beginning to," Ezra replied. "Mrs. Abbott showed me her archives last night."

"Did she now?" Jenna's eyebrows rose. "Then you know more than most. Thirty seconds. Last chance—what's your real purpose here?"

"To understand what happened to Aria."

Jenna studied him intently as the song faded. Without breaking eye contact, she flipped her microphone switch. "Welcome back to 'Needle Drops.' I'm joined in studio by Ezra Patel, Covenridge's newest private investigator, who shares our fascination with vinyl variations. Ezra, what draws you to the technical aspects of record pressing?"

The seamless transition into broadcast mode caught Ezra momentarily off-guard. He leaned toward the microphone she angled his way.

"I've recently started collecting, specifically focusing on acoustic differences between pressings of the same album," he answered, following her lead. "The way vinyl captures and preserves sound fascinates me."

"Any particular artists you're focusing on?" Jenna asked, her casual tone belied by her intent gaze.

"Lately I've been exploring The Starlight Wanderers catalog," Ezra replied. "Their albums seem to have unusual pressing variations."

"Indeed they do," Jenna agreed. "For listeners just joining us, The Starlight Wanderers were Covenridge's most significant musical export, recording three albums between 1987 and 1990 before dissolving after the tragic death of lead singer Aria."

She turned a dial, bringing up background music beneath their conversation. "What's particularly interesting about their records is how dramatically different each pressing batch sounds. Ezra, have you noticed these variations yourself?"

"I have. Even to my untrained ear, certain pressings have distinct qualities—more presence in the vocals, different spatial relationships between instruments."

"That's Maxwell Richards' production genius," Jenna explained. "He understood how vinyl physically captures sound waves. He would adjust frequencies specifically for different pressing plants, compensating for their equipment variations. The result is that a European pressing sounds noticeably different from a domestic one, despite coming from the same master recordings."

She pressed a button on her console. "Let's hear an example. This is 'Moonlight Crossing' from 'Midnight Reverberations,' original American pressing."

The studio filled with music—Aria's crystalline vocals floating over atmospheric instrumentation. After thirty seconds, Jenna faded it down and played another version—the same song, but with subtle yet distinct differences in how the voice sat within the mix.

"That was the German import of the same track," she explained. "Notice how the vocal placement shifts forward in the European pressing? Maxwell adjusted the mix specifically for the German plant's cutting lathe characteristics."

Ezra nodded appreciatively. "The attention to technical detail is remarkable."

"Which brings us to tonight's listener question segment," Jenna continued smoothly. "Our studio line is open at 555-0129 for anyone who'd like to discuss pressing variations or share information about unusual copies in their collections."

She gave Ezra a pointed look while adjusting her headphones. The implication was clear—this was his opportunity to ask about the dead wax messages while maintaining the pretense of casual collector interest.

The phone lit up almost immediately. Jenna pressed a button to put the caller on air.

"You're on 'Needle Drops.' Who's calling?"

"This is Thomas from Cedar Street," a male voice announced. "I wanted to ask your guest about his interest in Starlight Wanderers pressings. Is he focusing on any particular variations?"

Ezra leaned toward the microphone. "I'm particularly interested in the dead wax variations—the messages etched in the space between the final groove and the label."

"Ah," Thomas responded, his tone shifting slightly. "Those are indeed fascinating. I have the second American pressing of 'Echo Chamber' with the partial message about contract review clauses. Have you encountered that one?"

"Not yet," Ezra replied truthfully. "I'm still learning about the different variants. Do you know how many distinct messages exist across all their albums?"

"No one knows for certain," Thomas said. "There are at least seven confirmed variations, but rumors persist of others in private collections. The messages seem designed to be read sequentially across different pressings."

"Like puzzle pieces," Ezra suggested.

"Exactly. By the way, have you visited the pressing plant yet? Might find some answers there."

Before Ezra could respond, Jenna smoothly intervened. "Thanks for your call, Thomas. Let's take another listener."

She pressed another button. "You're on WCVR."

"Hello, this is Margaret," a woman's voice came through. "I wanted to share something about those dead wax messages. My late husband worked at CovenVinyl during final production of 'Midnight Reverberations.' He told me Maxwell would come in after hours to personally supervise certain pressing batches—very unusual for an artist to be that involved in manufacturing."

"Did your husband mention anything specific about the messages?" Ezra asked.

"Only that they changed between batches, and that Maxwell was extremely particular about which pressings went to which distribution regions. The most detailed messages were on copies that shipped outside Meridian Records' usual control areas."

"Strategic distribution," Jenna commented. "Ensuring information reached diverse locations."

"My husband always believed that was intentional," Margaret confirmed. "A way to prevent anyone from suppressing all copies."

After Margaret disconnected, the calls continued—each listener offering fragments of information about different pressings, distribution patterns, and dead wax variations. Some described messages focusing on contract terms, others on artistic control disputes, and a few mentioned more personal content that aligned with what Mrs. Abbott had shown Ezra.

During a music break, Jenna leaned toward Ezra off-microphone. "Notice the pattern? No one has a complete pressing with all messages, but collectively, the community holds most pieces."

"Distributed information," Ezra nodded. "No single point of failure."

"Exactly. Maxwell's background in data security influenced his approach. Before music, he briefly worked for a tech company developing information redundancy systems."

The phone lit up again as the song ended. Jenna answered with practiced ease. "You're on 'Needle Drops.'"

"Calling about those special pressings," a male voice said, deliberately distorted as if speaking through fabric. "Your guest should know there's a master copy that contains the complete sequence—Maxwell kept it in his personal vault. Never played, never shared."

Ezra straightened in his chair. "How do you know this?"

"Let's just say I have personal knowledge of the riverside studio's contents," the caller replied. "A fireproof safe beneath the mixing console. The truth isn't lost—just secured."

The call disconnected abruptly. Jenna raised an eyebrow at Ezra before transitioning smoothly back to her broadcast rhythm.

"Interesting claim. Many collectors believe in the existence of a 'complete message' pressing, though its existence has never been verified. Speaking of preservation—how does vinyl maintain its information integrity over decades?"

The conversation shifted to technical aspects of vinyl preservation, with several more callers sharing insights about storage methods and restoration techniques. Ezra participated, asking relevant questions while processing the bomb that had just been dropped about Maxwell's vault.

Near the end of the program, Jenna introduced him to Marcus, the station's engineer, who had been monitoring equipment from an adjacent booth. A tall man with a neat gray beard and wire-rimmed glasses, Marcus joined them during the final music segment.

"Fascinating discussion," he said, extending his hand to Ezra. "I've worked with vinyl restoration for thirty years. Those Wanderers pressings are unique in how they encode information."

"How so?" Ezra asked.

"Most dead wax messages are casually etched—inside jokes, initials, date marks. The Wanderers messages used a more sophisticated approach with variable depth etching." Marcus adjusted his glasses. "That's why they're harder to detect on casual inspection but preserve better over time."

"Unless deliberately damaged," Ezra suggested.

"Ah, you've seen one of the altered copies." Marcus nodded knowingly. "Someone took considerable effort with specialized equipment. Vinyl can last centuries in proper conditions, but it's vulnerable to intentional modification. The grooves can be polished out while leaving surrounding areas intact—like selectively erasing sentences from a letter."

"Similar to how memory works," Ezra observed.

"Precisely." Marcus smiled appreciatively. "We preserve what matters but remain vulnerable to deliberate revision. The medium is resilient but not inviolable."

Jenna's voice interrupted their conversation. "We're back in thirty seconds."

Marcus returned to his equipment booth while Jenna positioned her microphone for the program's conclusion. After thanking listeners and announcing the next day's topic, she played a final song and removed her headphones with a sigh.

"That went well," she said. "More callers than usual."

"Was that deliberate?" Ezra asked. "Setting up a conversation about dead wax messages?"

"Let's just say word travels when someone takes an interest in Covenridge's musical history." Jenna began shutting down equipment for the night. "The community has its own methods of information sharing."

"Like the community radio station with a broadcast range that barely reaches the town limits?"

Jenna smiled. "Our signal might not carry far, but our messages reach their intended audience. Speaking of which—" She opened a desk drawer and removed a small envelope. "Isadora asked me to give you this if you seemed genuinely interested in preservation rather than exploitation."

Ezra accepted the envelope, opening it to find a folded note and a cashier's check. The check was made out to "Starlight Music Hall Preservation Committee" for a substantial sum. The note, in Mrs. Abbott's distinctive handwriting, read simply: "Monthly contribution. Anonymous as always. Documentation in the usual place."

"She funds the preservation efforts," Ezra said, connecting another piece of the puzzle.

"Has since the beginning," Jenna confirmed. "Most of her disposable income goes to maintaining what's left of the hall. She'd never admit it publicly—prefers people think of her as just the bookstore owner with an eccentric shelving system."

"Why show me this?"

"My guess? She's testing your discretion. Seeing if you'll maintain her privacy while pursuing your investigation." Jenna powered down her console. "Isadora doesn't let people in easily. The fact that she showed you her archives speaks volumes."

Marcus re-entered from the engineering booth, carrying a stack of vinyl records. "Equipment's shut down for the night. Ezra, before you go—" He handed over a small business card. "If you encounter any damaged pressings that need professional assessment, call me. I do restoration work on the side."

"Much appreciated," Ezra replied, pocketing the card.

"One more thing," Marcus added. "That caller who mentioned Maxwell's vault? Voice distortion can't hide certain speech patterns. Particularly the way certain people pronounce 'riverside' with a slight emphasis on the first syllable."

"You think you know who it was?" Ezra asked.

Marcus exchanged glances with Jenna. "Let's just say it wouldn't be the first time Maxwell has used our call-in line to communicate indirectly. Usually when he's been drinking and feeling reflective."

Ezra absorbed this information, recalibrating his understanding of Maxwell's isolation. Perhaps the reclusive producer maintained more connections to the community than his hermit reputation suggested.

As he prepared to leave, Jenna handed him a CD in a plain sleeve. "Tonight's program. Thought you might want to review the calls more carefully. Pay particular attention to the timing—who called when, and what information they shared."

"Thank you," Ezra said, recognizing the value of this resource.

"Just remember," Jenna added, walking him to the door, "radio works through transmission and reception. The quality of what you receive depends on how well you're tuned to the frequency."

Outside, the night air carried the scent of wet earth from yesterday's storm. Ezra stood beside his car, looking back at the small station with its modest transmission tower. The building seemed almost insignificant—a converted house with limited broadcast range—yet tonight it had functioned as a nexus for information that had been carefully distributed across decades and different vinyl pressings.

Covenridge contained its secrets through limitations—geographical isolation, spotty cell service, small-town social boundaries. Yet those same limitations created protected spaces where truth could survive, preserved in vinyl grooves and community memory, transmitted through carefully controlled channels to receivers properly tuned to receive them.

Ezra started his car, Mrs. Abbott's check and note secure in his pocket. The radio automatically came on, catching the final moments of Jenna's program as she signed off:

"This is WCVR, where the valley's voices echo. Some messages fade with distance, others persist through time. Until tomorrow, keep your needle in the groove and your ears open to the spaces between songs."

As he drove back toward town, Ezra mentally added new elements to his investigation board—Maxwell's fireproof vault, the strategic distribution of different pressing variants, and Mrs. Abbott's financial support of the Music Hall preservation. The signal was strengthening, even as the noise of official narratives and deliberate obfuscation began to fade into the background.

The rare pressing of "Northern Lights" sat on the passenger seat of Ezra's car, safely enclosed in a protective sleeve and outer plastic covering. He'd paid more than a week's earnings to acquire it from a collector in Seattle—a first pressing with only minor surface wear and, most importantly, the elusive dead wax message about creative independence that Cecil had described as "the first breadcrumb in the trail."

As Ezra navigated the now-familiar road toward Maxwell's cottage, he considered his approach. His first visit had ended with a door slammed in his face and a reluctant conversation by the woodpile. This time, he needed to offer something valuable enough to gain entry—something a reclusive audiophile and collector couldn't easily refuse.

The fallen oak and lightning-struck pine marked his path through the forest. Spring had advanced since his last visit, the understory now lush with ferns and wildflowers. The guitar strings suspended from tree branches created different melodies today, the shifting breeze producing minor-key progressions that seemed to warn rather than welcome.

When the cottage came into view, Ezra noticed changes—windows open to the spring air, a chair positioned on the porch, and most notably, Maxwell himself sitting outside rather than hiding within. The former producer was whittling something from a small piece of wood, his knife moving with the same precision Ezra had observed in his woodchopping. A half-empty glass of amber liquid sat on the table beside him.

Sensing approach, Maxwell looked up. Recognition, then resignation crossed his face.

"The detective returns," he called, not rising from his chair. "Didn't take the hint last time?"

Ezra approached the porch steps, keeping the record conspicuously visible. "I brought something you might want to see."

Maxwell's eyes narrowed, focusing on the album sleeve. His knife paused mid-stroke. "Where did you get that?"

"Private collector in Seattle. First pressing of 'Northern Lights.' Complete with the original dead wax message about creative sovereignty."

The older man's expression shifted subtly—interest overtaking suspicion. "Mind if I examine it?"

"That's why I brought it," Ezra replied, climbing the steps. "Thought you might appreciate seeing it again after all these years."

Maxwell carefully set aside his whittling and extended his hands. Ezra noted they were steady now, unlike the trembling he'd heard reported from others who had encountered the reclusive producer. He handed over the record.

Maxwell handled the album with practiced precision, examining the cover for authenticity markers before sliding the vinyl partially from its sleeve. He tilted it toward the sunlight, studying the surface without touching the grooves.

"Minimal wear. Clean label edges. Proper matrix numbers." His assessment was clinical yet appreciative. "And you say it has the original dead wax?"

"According to the seller. I haven't verified it myself."

Maxwell's eyes flicked up, assessing. "You're either very confident or very foolish, buying something this expensive without authentication."

"I had Cecil confirm its pressing characteristics before purchase."

A grunt of acknowledgment. "Cecil knows his craft." Maxwell carefully returned the record to its sleeve. "You didn't drive all this way just to show me an old record."

"No," Ezra admitted. "I came to talk about the complete message in your vault."

Maxwell went very still. "What vault?"

"The fireproof safe beneath your mixing console. Where you keep the master pressing with all the dead wax messages intact."

"Someone's been telling tales," Maxwell muttered. He gestured toward the cottage door. "You might as well come in. Conversations like this shouldn't happen in the open air."

The invitation felt less like hospitality and more like security protocol, but Ezra accepted it without comment. Maxwell rose with the stiffness of age, leading the way to the door he had refused to open during Ezra's first visit.

The cottage interior unfolded like a time capsule. The front room served as both living space and recording studio—vintage equipment occupied one entire wall, while comfortable if worn furniture filled the remaining area. Reel-to-reel tape machines, mixing consoles with rows of faders, and specialized audio processing gear created a technological landscape that seemed both outdated and somehow timeless.

"Mind the cables," Maxwell warned, navigating a path through equipment arranged in what appeared to be deliberate geometric patterns.

Ezra followed carefully, noting details that revealed Maxwell's continued engagement with music despite his isolation—tape heads recently cleaned, dials free of dust, indicator lights glowing on equipment that remained in active use.

The walls held framed gold records and concert posters, while shelves displayed an extensive vinyl collection organized by some complex system Ezra couldn't immediately discern. A worn leather couch faced the mixing position, suggesting hours spent listening in precisely the right acoustic sweet spot.

"Your equipment is still operational," Ezra observed.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Maxwell replied, setting the record on a table. "Digital comes and goes. Hardware fails. Software becomes obsolete. But analog? Properly maintained, it outlives its creators."

He gestured toward a chair while taking his own seat behind the main mixing console. Between them sat a low table holding various tools—record cleaning supplies, precision screwdrivers, specialized brushes—arranged with surgical neatness.

"So," Maxwell said, "you heard about a vault from someone who disguises their voice on late-night radio shows. And that brought you back to my doorstep."

"Was it you who called?" Ezra asked directly.

A fleeting smile crossed Maxwell's face. "Would I admit it if it was?"

"Probably not. But the caller knew specifics that only someone with intimate knowledge of this place would have."

"Intimacy doesn't equal identity." Maxwell leaned back, studying Ezra with renewed interest. "What does Isadora think about your investigation?"

The casual use of Mrs. Abbott's first name stood in stark contrast to how the town referred to her. "She's shown me her archives."

Maxwell's eyebrows rose. "Has she? That's unexpected. She guards those materials carefully."

"She showed me the photograph of you both with Aria in the hospital after her birth," Ezra said, watching for reaction.

Maxwell's face remained composed, but his right hand dropped below the table edge—a subtle withdrawal from visibility. "That was a lifetime ago."

"She also showed me Aria's journals. The ones documenting the contract issues with Meridian."

"Smart girl," Maxwell said quietly. "Always tracking details, building cases. Like her mother that way." He reached for the glass he'd brought in from the porch, taking a deliberate sip. "What exactly are you hoping to find here, Mr. Patel? What's your endgame?"

"The truth about what happened at Singer's Fall," Ezra replied. "The official record doesn't match the physical evidence."

"And you think I can illuminate that discrepancy?" Maxwell's tone carried practiced neutrality.

"You were the only reported witness to Aria's suicide. Your testimony formed the foundation of the coroner's ruling."

Maxwell set his glass down with controlled precision. "That's the public record."

"Is it accurate?"

"Records serve their purpose in their time." Maxwell gestured toward his equipment. "Like recordings. They capture what the producers intended to preserve, not necessarily what actually happened."

"That's an interesting distinction."

"It's a technical reality." Maxwell leaned forward. "Did Isadora show you the campsite photograph? The one at Singer's Fall?"

Ezra maintained his poker face, not wanting to reveal Mrs. Abbott's confidence. "Why do you ask?"

Maxwell's laugh held no humor. "Because I know Isadora. She documents everything, preserves everything. After thirty years, she still has the receipt from the first cup of coffee we shared."

He stood suddenly, moving to a cabinet beside his mixing equipment. "Let me show you something about vinyl production. Since you've invested so heavily in collecting our records."

The abrupt topic change felt strategic rather than random. Ezra recognized the tactic—redirecting uncomfortable personal questions toward technical explanations—but decided to follow Maxwell's lead for now.

Maxwell retrieved what appeared to be disassembled pieces of vinyl manufacturing equipment—metal plates, cutting tools, and various specialized implements. He arranged them on the table between them with expert hands.

"Records begin with sound captured on tape," he explained, voice shifting to a lecturer's cadence. "That sound gets transferred to a master lacquer disc using a cutting lathe. The lathe translates audio signals into physical movement, carving grooves that correspond precisely to the original sound waves."

His fingers traced the edge of a metal plate. "This master lacquer gets electroplated to create a negative metal 'father.' From that father, we create metal 'mothers,' and from those mothers come the stampers that press actual vinyl records."

"Multiple generations of transfer," Ezra noted. "Each with opportunity for variation."

"Exactly." Maxwell's eyes lit with technical enthusiasm. "Most people think a record is just a copy of a master recording, but it's actually the fourth or fifth generation removed from the original sound. Each transfer adds characteristics—subtle compression from the cutting head, minute artifacts from the electroplating process, even variations from the temperature and pressure during pressing."

He selected a small tool that resembled a dental instrument. "And at each stage, there's opportunity for human intervention. Particularly in the dead wax area."

"Where the messages were added," Ezra prompted.

"Yes." Maxwell demonstrated with practiced movements. "The cutting engineer can pause after the final groove, before the label area, and manually inscribe text directly into the lacquer. It becomes part of the physical record—literally etched into the master from which all copies are made."

"But different pressings of Starlight Wanderers albums contain different messages," Ezra pointed out. "How is that possible if they all come from the same master?"

Maxwell's expression shifted to something like professional pride. "Because we didn't use just one master. We created multiple lacquers, each with slight sound variations only detectable to the most discerning ears, but with significantly different dead wax messages."

"Deliberate fragmentation of information," Ezra said, connecting to what he'd learned at the radio station.

"Information security through distribution," Maxwell corrected. "No single point of failure."

"And if someone wanted to remove a message from a specific pressing?"

Maxwell selected another tool—a fine polishing implement with a soft pad. "With enough technical knowledge, one could carefully polish just the dead wax area without affecting the grooves containing music. It would leave a smoother texture than surrounding areas, detectable under magnification, but would effectively erase whatever had been inscribed there."

His hands moved in demonstration, showing the precise pressure and movement required. Ezra noticed a slight tremor developing in Maxwell's right hand—barely perceptible but increasing as their conversation approached more sensitive territory.

"Have you ever removed messages yourself?" Ezra asked.

Maxwell set the tool down, his hand now clearly shaking. "Once. From a pressing that contained information too personal to remain in circulation."

"Mrs. Abbott's copy," Ezra guessed. "The one with the message from Aria about reclaiming her voice from 'the father who values my voice but not my existence.'"

The glass on the table toppled as Maxwell's trembling hand knocked against it. He caught it before it spilled completely, but not before liquid splashed onto the polished wood.

"Damn it," he muttered, grabbing a cloth to mop up the spill. The tremor had spread to both hands now, his movements becoming less coordinated.

"Tea," Ezra observed, catching the scent. "Not alcohol."

"Six years sober," Maxwell said stiffly. "Though that's hardly your business."

"But you were drinking heavily after Aria died."

"After she died, before she died, during most of my adult life." Maxwell tossed the damp cloth aside. "I assume Isadora shared that detail along with the rest of my failures."

"She spoke more about Aria than about you," Ezra said truthfully.

Maxwell's expression softened slightly. "She would. Isadora always protected what mattered most to her." He gestured toward a photograph on the mixing console that Ezra hadn't noticed before—the picture he'd seen in Mrs. Abbott's archives of the three of them together, but with a crucial difference. Here, a second frame partially overlapped the image, obscuring Maxwell's face while leaving Isadora and Aria fully visible.

"Your family," Ezra said quietly.

"Not in any way that counted," Maxwell replied. "I provided genetic material and musical training. Nothing resembling actual fatherhood."

"Yet you kept the photograph."

"Some mistakes deserve remembering." Maxwell returned to his chair, the tremor in his hands gradually subsiding. "Is that what you came for, detective? Confirmation of my personal failures? Evidence of my inadequacy as a father? You already knew all that from Isadora."

"I came to understand what happened at Singer's Fall," Ezra repeated. "The day Aria disappeared."

Maxwell's face closed like a shutter. "You want a confession. That's what this is about."

"I want the truth, whatever it is."

"The truth," Maxwell repeated with bitter emphasis. "As if there's a single, definitive version of events that would satisfy everyone. Meridian Records wanted a convenient tragedy that wouldn't interfere with catalog rights. The town wanted a myth they could memorialize without complications. Fans wanted romantic martyrdom. What makes you think my truth would be any more valid than the stories people have lived with for thirty years?"

"Because you were there," Ezra said simply.

Maxwell stared at him for a long moment. Something shifted in his expression—not softening exactly, but a realignment, as if internal barriers were being reconfigured.

"I wasn't," he said finally. "That's the truth you're so eager to uncover. I wasn't at Singer's Fall when Aria allegedly jumped. I was here, in this cottage, drunk to the point of unconsciousness after the meeting with Meridian's lawyers."

The admission hung in the air between them, its implications expanding to fill the room.

"You lied to the authorities," Ezra said, not a question but a confirmation.

"I woke up on that couch," Maxwell pointed, "with no memory of the previous six hours. Victor Strand was standing over me, explaining that Aria had become distraught during our contract discussion and had run from the cottage. That I had followed her to Singer's Fall but couldn't reach her in time."

"Strand created the suicide narrative," Ezra realized.

"He provided it complete with stage directions. Said the sheriff was already organizing search parties, that I needed to give a statement immediately." Maxwell's face hardened with self-disgust. "I was still half-drunk, disoriented, terrified. And I did what I've always done when confronted with personal responsibility—I took the path of least resistance."

"You repeated Strand's story as your own eyewitness account."

"I became the only witness to an event I never saw." Maxwell's voice had gone flat. "By the time I realized what I'd done, my statement was official. Changing it would mean admitting perjury, destroying what remained of my credibility, possibly facing criminal charges. So I maintained the lie. Embellished it with details as needed. Eventually, I almost believed it myself."

"But you don't actually know what happened to Aria," Ezra concluded.

"I know she came here that day to confront us about the contract terms. To declare her independence from both Meridian Records and me." Maxwell gestured vaguely toward the river outside. "Beyond that? I have theories, suspicions. Nothing I could prove in court or even justify to Isadora."

"What are those theories?"

Maxwell rose abruptly. "We're done here." He moved toward the door, opening it in clear dismissal. "You have what you came for—confirmation that the official record is flawed. That I lied. That I failed my daughter in death as thoroughly as in life. Take that back to your investigation board and add it to your collection of damning evidence."

Ezra remained seated. "There's more."

"There always is," Maxwell replied bitterly. "But that doesn't mean I'm obligated to provide it."

"The vault," Ezra reminded him. "The master pressing with the complete dead wax message."

Maxwell's expression hardened. "Some things remain private, detective. Not everything is available for public consumption or investigation."

"This isn't about public exposure," Ezra said, rising slowly. "It's about justice for Aria. Understanding what really happened that day."

"Justice?" Maxwell's laugh was harsh. "Thirty years later? When most of the responsible parties are dead or beyond reach? What justice could possibly emerge from disturbing these waters now?"

"The truth has its own value," Ezra insisted. "For Mrs. Abbott, if no one else."

"Isadora has made her peace with uncertainty," Maxwell said, though his tone suggested doubt. "Further details would only reopen wounds that have finally scarred over."

"Is that your decision to make?"

The question hung between them. Maxwell's hand gripped the door edge with whitening knuckles.

"Get out," he said quietly. "I've shared more than I intended. Take that record with you—I have no need for physical reminders of past failures."

Ezra reclaimed the vinyl pressing from the table, moving toward the door. As he stepped onto the porch, Maxwell spoke again.

"Detective."

Ezra turned.

"Water under the bridge stays where it belongs," Maxwell said. "Some currents, once disturbed, destroy everything in their path—including those who stirred them up. Remember that before you wade any deeper."

The door closed firmly—not slammed in anger but secured with deliberate finality. Ezra stood on the porch, processing what he'd learned. Maxwell had lied about witnessing Aria's suicide. The cornerstone of the official narrative was fabricated, constructed by Victor Strand and repeated by a compromised Maxwell.

As Ezra walked back toward the forest path, the sound traps hanging from tree branches caught the afternoon breeze, creating discordant melodies that seemed to follow him. He glanced back at the cottage one last time, noticing movement at a window—Maxwell watching his departure, a silhouette partially obscured by curtains, just as his image had been partially obscured in the photograph on his mixing console.

Self-erasure, Ezra thought. A man who had removed himself from his family narrative through choices made decades ago, who continued that erasure through physical isolation and selective memory.

Yet for all Maxwell's reluctance, today's confession had provided crucial information. The official suicide report was built on fiction. Maxwell had no idea what actually happened to Aria that day. And somewhere in that cottage, a fireproof vault contained a vinyl record with the complete dead wax message—Aria's final communication, preserved but hidden from those who might understand its significance.

Ezra reached his car and carefully placed the Northern Lights album on the passenger seat. The day's revelation wasn't a conclusion but another beginning—a new groove to follow in the ongoing investigation of what happened at Singer's Fall thirty years ago.

Water dripped from the ceiling in three distinct locations, each creating its own rhythm against the plastic buckets Ezra had positioned beneath them. The largest leak, directly above his desk, had the most insistent pattern—a steady plunk-plunk-plunk that had grown louder throughout the morning. The ceiling tiles showed expanding brown stains, their edges curling downward as if reaching for the floor.

"Well, this is unfortunate timing," Harold Hargrove said, standing in the doorway of Ezra's office with his arms crossed. "Roof's been needing work for years. Spring storms finally found the weak spots."

Ezra carefully moved a stack of case files away from the creeping dampness. "How long before it can be repaired?"

"Roofer can't get here until Monday at the earliest. Got calls from half the businesses on Main after that windstorm last night." Hargrove scratched his chin thoughtfully. "You'll need to clear out until then. Water damage will only get worse."

"I have client meetings scheduled," Ezra replied, glancing at his investigation board where plastic sheeting now protected his carefully arranged notes and connections. "And nowhere to conduct them."

Hargrove nodded toward the window. "May have a solution. Isadora—Mrs. Abbott—mentioned she has space in her back room. Said to send you over if you needed temporary quarters."

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "She offered that voluntarily?"

"Don't look so surprised. Town takes care of its own." Hargrove watched as another drop fell from the ceiling, splashing into the already half-full bucket. "Better get moving before your files start swimming."

Forty-five minutes later, Ezra had packed his essential business materials into two cardboard boxes and a waterproof case for his laptop. The remaining office contents he'd covered with tarps provided by Hargrove. The investigation board—his most precious resource—he'd carefully photographed and then dismantled, placing the index cards and notes in a waterproof portfolio.

The bell above the bookstore door chimed as Ezra entered Resonant Pages, arms full. Mrs. Abbott stood at the checkout counter, assisting an elderly customer with a stack of mystery novels. She glanced up briefly, acknowledging Ezra with a slight nod before returning her attention to the transaction.

"Those should keep you occupied through your recovery, Margaret," she said, placing the books in a cloth tote bag. "Remember what Dr. Wilson said about reading in proper light."

"Doctors worry too much," Margaret replied, accepting the bag. "At my age, comfort matters more than caution." She turned, noticing Ezra for the first time. "Oh! You're the detective. Found my friend Edith's cat, didn't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," Ezra replied, shifting his boxes to maintain his grip.

"Good work, that. Wordsworth means everything to her." Margaret patted his arm as she passed. "Glad to see you settling in. This town needs someone who finds what's lost."

After she left, Mrs. Abbott moved from behind the counter. "The storm found your weak spots, I see."

"Harold said you offered space."

"The reading room in back. It's not used much on weekdays." She gestured for him to follow. "You can set up at the table there. Just be packed up by 5:00 pm when my book club arrives."

The room Ezra remembered from his stormy night's stay had been rearranged—the day bed now replaced by a round oak table with four chairs. Tall bookshelves lined three walls, while the fourth featured a bay window overlooking a small garden.

"This is generous," Ezra said, setting his boxes on the table. "Thank you."

"Consider it professional courtesy between information specialists." Mrs. Abbott's echo of Dahlia's phrase seemed deliberate. "Though I expect discretion with my customers. No interrogations disguised as casual conversations."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Her slight smile suggested she didn't entirely believe him. "I have coffee brewing. I'll bring you a cup while you set up."

When she returned with the promised coffee, Ezra had arranged his temporary workspace—laptop open, client files neatly stacked, and a small wooden stand displaying his business card.

"No cork board?" she asked, setting the mug beside him.

"Seemed inappropriate in your space." He gestured to the waterproof portfolio. "But I have my notes."

Mrs. Abbott studied him for a moment, something unreadable in her expression. "I have a delivery coming at 11:00 am. Can you watch the front for five minutes while I sign for it?"

"Of course."

She hesitated in the doorway. "Did Maxwell show you his equipment? The vinyl production tools?"

Ezra looked up, surprised by the direct question. "Yes. He demonstrated how the dead wax messages were created. And how they could be removed."

"And did he explain why he removed the message from my copy?"

"He said it contained information too personal to remain in circulation."

Mrs. Abbott nodded slightly. "That's one way to describe it." She turned to leave, then added, "Your first appointment is here. A Mr. Calvert regarding musical memorabilia."

Before Ezra could ask how she knew his schedule, she had disappeared through the doorway. Moments later, a man in his early sixties appeared at the reading room entrance. Dressed in pressed khakis and a blue oxford shirt, Thomas Calvert had the neat, deliberate appearance of someone accustomed to precision.

"Mr. Patel?" he asked, glancing around the book-lined room with mild confusion. "I had your office address, but the hardware store owner directed me here."

"Temporary relocation due to water damage," Ezra explained, rising to shake his hand. "Please, have a seat and tell me how I can help you."

Calvert sat with careful posture, placing a leather portfolio on the table. "I need to establish clear provenance for certain items in my collection. Documentation that will stand up to legal scrutiny."

"What kind of items are we discussing?"

"Musical memorabilia. Specifically, equipment used by The Starlight Wanderers during their recording sessions." Calvert opened his portfolio, removing photographs of vintage microphones, effects pedals, and what appeared to be a specialized mixing board. "I purchased these from various sources over the years. Each came with verbal assurances of authenticity, but minimal documentation."

Ezra examined the photographs with professional interest that masked his personal curiosity. "And why the sudden need for verification?"

"Meridian Records is assembling items for an anniversary exhibition. The thirtieth anniversary of..." Calvert paused delicately. "Of Aria's passing. They've offered substantial sums for authenticated equipment. But their legal department requires documentation I don't currently possess."

"How did you acquire these pieces?"

"Various sources. Some from former studio employees, others from local musicians who worked with the band." Calvert hesitated. "One piece—a customized reverb unit—I purchased from a man claiming to have recovered it after the studio fire."

Ezra made notes while maintaining a neutral expression. "And you believe these items are authentic?"

"I know they are." Calvert leaned forward. "I worked as a session engineer in the valley during the 1980s. I recognize Maxwell's modifications to standard equipment. But proving that to Meridian's lawyers is another matter."

"What exactly do you need from me?"

"Documented chain of custody. Interviews with original owners. Photographic comparison with known equipment from authenticated sources." Calvert named a surprisingly generous fee. "I understand you've developed expertise in Starlight Wanderers history during your time here."

The bell from the front of the store chimed, followed by Mrs. Abbott's voice greeting a delivery person. Through the partially open door, Ezra could hear the sound of a heavy box being placed on the counter.

"I can help establish provenance," Ezra said, turning back to Calvert. "Though I should mention that Meridian Records seems particularly interested in controlling Starlight Wanderers artifacts lately. A young collector was recently approached quite aggressively regarding a rare pressing."

"Ryan Briggs," Calvert nodded. "News travels in collector circles. That's precisely why I want proper documentation—to ensure my position is legally secure before negotiating with them."

They spent the next thirty minutes establishing parameters for the investigation—items to be authenticated, potential sources for verification, and timeline for completion. Throughout their conversation, Ezra noticed Mrs. Abbott passing by the doorway several times, ostensibly organizing books but clearly monitoring their discussion.

After Calvert left, she appeared with a fresh cup of coffee. "Meridian Records," she said, her tone making the name sound like something distasteful. "Still collecting pieces of my daughter's legacy."

"You heard."

"These walls are thin, and I have excellent hearing." She set the coffee down more forcefully than necessary. "Thirty years of controlling her music, and now they want to put her equipment behind glass like museum artifacts."

"Calvert seems to genuinely care about authentication."

"Thomas worked with Maxwell occasionally. He appreciates the craftsmanship." She straightened a stack of books with precise movements. "But Meridian only cares about the anniversary marketing potential. 'Tragic artist dies young' sells special edition vinyl reissues and expensive exhibition tickets."

The front door chimed again. Mrs. Abbott sighed. "Busy morning. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you need it."

After she left, Ezra updated his case notes on Calvert's request, mapping out investigative approaches for verifying the equipment's authenticity. Such work aligned perfectly with his legitimate business while potentially providing new insights into the Wanderers' story.

A soft tapping at the doorway interrupted his thoughts. Dahlia stood there, holding two take-out cups and a paper bag.

"Figured you might need proper fuel," she said, entering without waiting for invitation. "Came to check on Mrs. Abbott after I heard about the roof collapse. Hargrove mentioned you'd relocated here."

"News travels fast as always," Ezra observed, accepting the offered coffee. "What's in the bag?"

"Cranberry scone. Made them this morning." Dahlia took the seat across from him, her eyes scanning his temporary workspace with interest. "So, the investigator now works from within the primary source's inner sanctum. Convenient arrangement."

"For tracking water damage, not for tracking secrets," Ezra replied.

"Is there a difference in this town?" She sipped her coffee, studying him. "How much did Maxwell share during your second visit?"

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "You know about that too?"

"I bring him supplies every two weeks. He mentioned you brought a rare pressing as your entry token." Her direct gaze challenged him. "Rather calculated approach."

"It worked."

"Clearly." She lowered her voice, leaning forward. "He also mentioned he told you about the fabricated witness statement. That's significant trust from someone who rarely speaks to anyone."

Ezra glanced toward the doorway, ensuring Mrs. Abbott wasn't within earshot. "He was drunk when Aria disappeared. Never saw what happened at Singer's Fall. The entire suicide narrative came from Victor Strand."

Dahlia absorbed this without visible surprise. "Some in town have suspected as much for years. Maxwell's drinking was hardly a secret."

"You don't seem shocked by confirmation that the official story is false."

"Official stories rarely capture truth in Covenridge." She broke off a piece of scone, considering it before continuing. "Did he tell you about the contract meeting that day? About what Meridian was demanding?"

"Not specifically."

"They were insisting on complete catalog control, including unreleased material." Dahlia's expression darkened. "My parents were connected to the music scene. I remember overhearing their conversations about 'Maxwell selling out' and 'that poor girl's voice being commodified.'"

A loud crash from the front of the store interrupted them. They both rose instantly, rushing toward the sound. In the main shop area, Mrs. Abbott stood beside a fallen display table, books scattered across the floor. Her face was alarmingly pale.

"Isadora!" Dahlia reached her first, taking her arm. "What happened?"

"Just got dizzy for a moment," Mrs. Abbott replied, though her voice lacked conviction. "Caught myself on the table, but it wasn't stable."

Ezra quickly began gathering the fallen books while Dahlia guided Mrs. Abbott to a chair behind the counter.

"When did you eat last?" Dahlia asked, her tone gently scolding.

"I had toast this morning," Mrs. Abbott said dismissively. "I'm fine. Just stood up too quickly."

Ezra finished restoring the books to their display, noticing one that had fallen open—a photo album disguised as a vintage novel. Within, he glimpsed a photograph of a young Aria at what appeared to be a birthday celebration. Mrs. Abbott quickly closed it when she saw his attention.

"Thank you both, but please don't fuss," she said firmly. "Dahlia, don't you have a coffee shop to run? And Ezra, I believe you have client notes to prepare."

Dahlia exchanged a glance with Ezra. "I'll bring lunch at 1:00 pm," she said to Mrs. Abbott, her tone allowing no argument. "And you'll eat it."

When they returned to the reading room, Dahlia closed the door partially before speaking.

"She forgets to eat when the anniversary approaches," she explained quietly. "Loses herself in preservation work instead of basic self-care."

"Anniversary?"

"Aria's birthday is next week. May 15th." Dahlia shook her head. "It's always harder for Isadora than the death anniversary. Birth holds more hope than death."

Ezra hadn't known this detail. "She seems to be handling it well otherwise."

"What you see is carefully constructed composure." Dahlia gathered her belongings, preparing to leave. "Be observant while you're working here. You'll notice patterns—when she plays certain records, which books she rearranges, how she stops the turntable before the dead wax every time."

"Why tell me this?"

Dahlia paused at the doorway. "Because understanding grief rituals might be as important to your investigation as understanding dead wax messages." Her expression softened slightly. "And because Mrs. Abbott needs witnesses to her devotion, not just her daughter's death."

After she left, Ezra returned to his client notes, but found his attention drawn to the sounds of the bookstore—customers coming and going, Mrs. Abbott's voice shifting subtly depending on who she addressed, the occasional creak of the old building settling. Around noon, he heard the distinct sound of a record being removed from its sleeve, followed by the mechanical noises of a turntable being prepared.

Music filtered through the partially open door—the unmistakable voice of Aria singing what he recognized as "Midnight Crossing" from his growing vinyl collection. Mrs. Abbott had started the track at a modest volume, but as the shop emptied of customers, she gradually increased it until Aria's voice filled the space with ethereal clarity.

Ezra moved quietly to the doorway, observing without intruding. Mrs. Abbott stood with her back to him, eyes closed, hands slightly raised as if conducting or perhaps embracing the sound waves. When the song approached its final notes, she moved with practiced precision to lift the needle before it could reach the dead wax.

The silence that followed seemed to physically affect her. Her shoulders dropped, her hands returned to her sides, and she exhaled deeply before carefully returning the record to its sleeve.

Ezra stepped back to his temporary desk before she could notice his observation. The intimacy of the moment left him feeling both privileged to witness and uncomfortable with his intrusion.

Around 1:00 pm, as promised, Dahlia arrived with lunch for Mrs. Abbott. Their quiet conversation carried from the front of the store—Dahlia insistent, Mrs. Abbott initially resistant but gradually acquiescing. When Dahlia appeared at the reading room doorway again, she carried an extra sandwich.

"Thought you might be hungry too," she said, placing it beside his laptop. "Turkey and avocado on sourdough."

"Thank you." Ezra accepted gratefully. "Is she eating?"

"Under supervision." Dahlia glanced back toward the front of the store before lowering her voice. "Listen, someone's been asking questions around town about The Starlight Wanderers. Not a collector this time—a music journalist working on an anniversary piece."

"Did you get a name?"

"Jennifer Reeves. Writes for Resonance Magazine." Dahlia frowned slightly. "She's been interviewing people who attended the final concert, asking specifically about tension between Maxwell and Aria on stage, and about the dead wax messages."

"That's oddly specific interest for a general retrospective article."

"Exactly." Dahlia straightened, her expression serious. "Just wanted you to know there's another player on the board. One who publishes findings rather than keeping them confidential."

After she left, Ezra ate while researching Jennifer Reeves online. The bookstore's Wi-Fi was surprisingly fast compared to his apartment's spotty connection. He found several music history articles under her byline, including a well-regarded series on exploitation in the recording industry of the 1980s and 90s.

Her most recent piece—"Silenced Voices: Female Artists Who Died Before Their Time"—featured a small sidebar about Aria, noting questions about the circumstances of her death that had "never been satisfactorily addressed by authorities or record company representatives."

The tinkling bell announced another visitor to the bookstore. Through the partially open door, Ezra heard a woman's voice.

"I'm looking for Mrs. Abbott. I'm Jennifer Reeves from Resonance Magazine. We had correspondence about an interview regarding The Starlight Wanderers."

"I'm afraid I have no comment," Mrs. Abbott replied, her tone professionally distant. "As I mentioned in my email, I don't give interviews about the band."

"But you were intimately connected with their history," the journalist persisted. "Your perspective would add valuable context to the anniversary retrospective."

"My perspective is private," Mrs. Abbott stated firmly. "Now, unless you're interested in purchasing books, I'll have to ask you to leave."

"What about the rumors that Aria's death wasn't suicide? Or the messages hidden in the vinyl dead wax? Don't you think the public deserves the complete story after thirty years?"

A moment of tense silence followed. When Mrs. Abbott spoke again, her voice carried a controlled anger Ezra hadn't heard before.

"My daughter deserves respect, not exploitation for magazine sales. Good day, Ms. Reeves."

The bell jangled again, indicating the journalist's departure—voluntary or otherwise. Ezra remained at his desk, processing what he'd overheard. Mrs. Abbott had publicly claimed Aria as her daughter—something he suspected she rarely did with strangers.

Several minutes passed before Mrs. Abbott appeared at the reading room doorway, her composure restored but tension still visible around her eyes.

"I apologize for the disruption," she said formally.

"No apology needed. It's your space."

She hesitated, then entered the room fully. "You heard, I assume."

"Yes."

"Journalists," she said, the word heavy with disdain. "They arrive like clockwork with each anniversary. Looking for new angles to make the same tragedy marketable again."

"This one seems focused on questioning the suicide narrative," Ezra observed.

"She's not the first. Every few years, someone decides to 'investigate' Aria's death." Mrs. Abbott moved to the window, looking out at the garden. "They dig around for a few weeks, stir up painful memories, then disappear once they have their sensational quotes."

"But this time, there's actually evidence the official story is false," Ezra said carefully. "Maxwell's admission changes things."

Mrs. Abbott turned to face him, her expression complex. "Do you think I haven't known for thirty years that Maxwell's witness statement was fabricated? That I couldn't recognize the patterns of his drinking, the convenient timing for Meridian Records?"

"Then why not challenge it publicly?"

"With what? Maternal intuition? Circumstantial evidence?" Her hands clasped together tightly. "Against a powerful corporation with teams of lawyers? Without a body, without physical evidence, without Maxwell's cooperation?" She shook her head. "I chose to preserve what I could of Aria's real legacy instead of tilting at legal windmills."

A customer's arrival interrupted their conversation. Mrs. Abbott straightened her shoulders, transforming back into the professional bookseller before Ezra's eyes.

"I need to attend to the shop," she said. "Your second appointment arrives at 3:00 pm. I'll send them back when they arrive."

Left alone, Ezra contemplated what he'd learned through simply occupying this space for a few hours. Mrs. Abbott's grief rituals—playing Aria's music at precise times, stopping before the dead wax, keeping photographs disguised as books within easy reach. Her fierce protection of Aria's memory against journalistic exploitation. Her pragmatic recognition of the limits of what justice was possible thirty years later.

The parallel between his water-damaged office and his increasingly permeable professional boundaries felt suddenly appropriate. Just as the storm had found weak spots in Hargrove's roof, his investigation had created openings between his professional and personal involvement with this case. Working from within Mrs. Abbott's space only accelerated that process.

Ezra opened his waterproof portfolio, removing the organized notes from his investigation board. Even without pins and string to connect them, the pattern remained clear—a young woman's voice silenced when it threatened powerful interests, a father too compromised to protect her, a mother left to preserve what fragments remained.

Outside, clouds gathered for another spring storm, casting the reading room into premature shadow. Ezra switched on the desk lamp, its warm glow creating a small circle of clarity around his work—much like his investigation, illuminating one small area while much remained in darkness.

The record player in the front of the store began again, Aria's voice floating through the bookstore with haunting clarity. This time, Ezra remained at his desk, allowing Mrs. Abbott her private ritual without observation. Some playbacks, he realized, weren't meant for an audience—even when they contained the truths he sought.

The name "VinylSpecter" glowed on Ezra's laptop screen, a phantom haunting the depths of obscure collector forums. Four days had passed since his temporary relocation to Mrs. Abbott's bookstore, and while his legitimate cases proceeded efficiently, his nights had become digital hunting expeditions. The mysterious forum user who had arranged to meet Ryan Briggs—who claimed to have decoded the complete dead wax messages—remained frustratingly elusive.

Ezra scrolled through another thread where collectors debated the authenticity of various Starlight Wanderers pressings. VinylSpecter's posts stood out for their authoritative tone and technical specificity—describing pressing variations with insider knowledge that surpassed even Cecil's expertise.

A soft knock interrupted his concentration. Mrs. Abbott stood in the doorway of his apartment, a steaming mug in hand.

"It's past midnight," she said, setting the tea beside his laptop. "The circles under your eyes suggest this isn't case work for the insurance verification."

Ezra rubbed his face, surprised by the hour. "Following a lead on the dead wax messages. Someone using the name VinylSpecter claims to have assembled the complete sequence."

Mrs. Abbott leaned against the doorframe, studying him. "And you believe this anonymous forum person has information I don't? After thirty years of preservation?"

"Not better information. Different access points." Ezra turned the laptop toward her. "Look at this technical description of the master lacquer cutting process. Whoever this is worked directly with vinyl production."

She scanned the text, her expression thoughtful. "Sounds like someone from CovenVinyl. Most of those employees scattered after the plant closed."

"Can you think of anyone specific who might have this level of knowledge?"

"Several possibilities." Mrs. Abbott straightened. "Harold Spencer was the head engineer. Martha Willis handled quality control. Then there was Adrian Kelly, Maxwell's preferred cutting engineer for the dead wax messages."

"Adrian Kelly," Ezra repeated, adding the name to his growing list. "Any idea where he might be now?"

"Last I heard, he relocated to Portland after the plant closed. Opened a specialty audio repair shop." She stepped back from the doorway. "Get some sleep, Ezra. Obsession clouds judgment, and you have actual clients who need clear thinking."

After she left, Ezra stared at the name on his notepad. Adrian Kelly. A direct connection to the creation of the dead wax messages. The possibility of finding someone who had witnessed their inscription firsthand sent a surge of excitement through his fatigue.

A quick online search revealed nothing under that name in Portland's business directories. Either the shop had closed, or Adrian Kelly had moved elsewhere. Dead end for tonight.

Ezra closed his laptop, finally registering how much his eyes burned from too many hours of screen time. Mrs. Abbott was right—his fixation on the dead wax mystery was beginning to affect his professional discipline. The tea she'd left—chamomile with a hint of lavender—was clearly a not-so-subtle suggestion to rest.

He drained the cup and headed for bed.

---

"I'm terminating our agreement, Mr. Patel."

Robert Daniels sat stiffly across from Ezra in the bookstore's reading room, his previously completed case file open on the table between them.

"May I ask why?" Ezra kept his tone professionally neutral despite the sinking feeling in his stomach. "The evidence I provided regarding your wife's affair was conclusive."

"The evidence, yes. Your follow-through, no." Daniels straightened his already immaculate tie. "Three unanswered calls. A consultation rescheduled twice. And when I stopped by your office, I found water damage and no investigator."

"There were extenuating circumstances⁠—"

"There always are." Daniels closed the file with finality. "I've retained Services from Westin to handle the divorce proceedings. They've assured me they can provide consistent attention to my case."

After Daniels departed, Ezra sat motionless, confronting the reality of his first lost client. The financial impact was manageable, but the reputational damage in a small town like Covenridge could be significant.

"Trouble?" Mrs. Abbott stood in the doorway, having clearly overheard at least part of the conversation.

"Nothing I can't handle," Ezra replied, though his tone lacked conviction.

"Professional advice from one small business owner to another." She entered, straightening books on a nearby shelf. "When personal obsessions begin affecting client relationships, it's time to reassess priorities."

Ezra met her gaze directly. "Is that what you did? Reassessed priorities after Aria died?"

The question hung between them, more confrontational than he'd intended. Mrs. Abbott's hands stilled on the books.

"Yes," she said finally. "I closed my music journalism career and opened this store. Contained my grief in a structure that could sustain rather than consume me." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "But my daughter had already died. Yours is merely a case without a client."

The pointed distinction silenced any further defense Ezra might have offered. She was right—his fixation with the dead wax messages had grown disproportionate to professional responsibilities.

Before he could respond, his phone vibrated with a text message. The number was unfamiliar, but the area code was local:

"Heard you're looking for me. Corner booth at Dahlia's. 3 pm today. Come alone. —AK"

Adrian Kelly. The cutting engineer.

"I need to go," Ezra said, rising quickly and gathering his notes. "I have a lead on the VinylSpecter identity."

Mrs. Abbott watched him with something between concern and resignation. "Just remember—collectors often protect their treasures by misdirection. The more valuable the find, the more elaborate the hunt."

---

Dahlia's coffee shop buzzed with afternoon activity. Ezra arrived twenty minutes early, selecting a table with clear sightlines to both entrances. He ordered "Maxwell's Melody" from a young barista he didn't recognize, then settled in to observe each arriving customer.

At precisely 3:00 pm, a slender man in his sixties entered, scanning the room with practiced efficiency before heading directly to Ezra's table. His silver hair was pulled back in a short ponytail, and wire-rimmed glasses perched on a narrow nose. He wore a denim jacket covered in vintage concert patches, many from bands Ezra didn't recognize.

"You Patel?" he asked without preamble.

"Adrian Kelly?" Ezra stood, extending his hand.

The man ignored the gesture, sliding into the booth opposite him. "I didn't say I was Adrian Kelly. I said you were looking for me." His accent suggested East Coast origins, smoothed by decades on the West Coast. "You can call me Sonny. It's what most people use these days."

"Sonny," Ezra repeated, noting the man's defensive posture. "Thank you for reaching out."

"Didn't have much choice. You've been leaving digital fingerprints all over the collector forums. Very amateur." Sonny removed his glasses, cleaning them methodically with a microfiber cloth from his pocket. "And when someone starts asking about Adrian Kelly around town, word travels."

Dahlia appeared at their table, setting down Ezra's coffee before turning to Sonny. "The usual?"

"Black coffee. Don't waste the good beans on me." Sonny's gruff tone softened slightly. "And maybe one of those blueberry things."

"Scone," Dahlia corrected with a familiarity that suggested history. "Coming right up." She glanced at Ezra, a question in her eyes that he couldn't quite interpret.

After she left, Ezra leaned forward. "Are you VinylSpecter?"

Sonny replaced his glasses, studying Ezra critically. "What if I am?"

"Then you know more about The Starlight Wanderers' dead wax messages than anyone except Maxwell himself."

"Maxwell knows jack about those messages compared to me," Sonny scoffed. "He just watched while I cut them into the lacquers. My hands created those messages—every depth variation, every subtle curve of the letters."

"So you were the cutting engineer at CovenVinyl."

"Chief engineer for the final two albums." Pride crept into his voice despite his apparent desire for anonymity. "I developed the variable-depth etching technique that made those messages preserve so well. Standard scratches would have faded decades ago."

Dahlia returned with his coffee and scone, placing them carefully before him. "Glad to see you sharing stories again, Sonny. It's been a while."

"Not sharing. Correcting misinformation." He broke off a piece of scone, popping it into his mouth. "This detective thinks Maxwell was the technical genius behind the dead wax messages."

"I never said—" Ezra began.

"You implied it by looking for him instead of me." Sonny sipped his coffee, grimacing slightly. "Maxwell was the artist. I was the technician who made his ideas physically possible. Big difference."

Ezra recalibrated his approach. "I'm trying to understand the purpose of fragmenting the messages across different pressings. Was that intentional?"

"Of course it was intentional." Sonny leaned back, crossing his arms. "Information security through distribution. Maxwell had worked for some tech firm before music—knew all about redundancy and decentralization. His idea was to spread the message so widely that it couldn't be completely suppressed."

"What was so important about these messages that required that level of protection?"

"Contract terms." Sonny's voice lowered conspiratorially. "Meridian had these predatory clauses buried in fine print. Death transfers, rights reversions, intellectual property definitions that basically claimed ownership of anything the artists thought while under contract."

"And the messages were meant to warn other musicians?"

"Partly." Sonny broke off another piece of scone. "But mainly to create a permanent record outside Meridian's control. Physical evidence that couldn't be legally suppressed because it existed outside the contracted materials."

"You arranged to meet Ryan Briggs about a pressing containing the complete message."

Sonny's expression shuttered. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"VinylSpecter arranged to meet him at an abandoned record store. Men claiming to represent Meridian Records showed up instead." Ezra watched him carefully. "Ryan had found what you called a 'complete message' pressing."

"That's unfortunate for Ryan." Sonny drained his coffee cup, his body language shifting toward departure. "But it has nothing to do with me."

"I think it does." Ezra placed his notebook on the table, opening to a page where he'd printed screenshots of VinylSpecter's forum posts. "These technical descriptions match exactly what you just told me about variable-depth etching. And the meeting location—you knew it because you once worked at Tone Arm Records as their equipment consultant."

Sonny stared at him for a long moment. "You've done some homework. Not enough." He stood abruptly. "This conversation is over."

"I'm not trying to expose you," Ezra said quickly. "I'm trying to understand what happened to Aria. The dead wax messages are part of that story."

Something flickered in Sonny's expression—surprise, perhaps recognition. "Meet me at Taylor Creek Bridge tomorrow. 7:00 am. Come alone." He tossed a five-dollar bill on the table and departed without another word.

Dahlia appeared beside Ezra moments later, collecting the empty cups. "I see Sonny's still doing his mysterious exit routine."

"You know him well?"

"He repairs our vintage espresso equipment." She nodded toward the door where Sonny had disappeared. "Brilliant with machines, difficult with people. Spent a decade completely off-grid after CovenVinyl closed."

"Did he ever mention working with The Starlight Wanderers?"

"Only when very drunk, which happens about once a year at the Solstice Festival." Dahlia lowered her voice. "He has strong opinions about Maxwell, mostly negative."

"He agreed to meet again tomorrow."

"Surprising." Dahlia gathered the remaining dishes. "Be careful with Sonny. He's been running from something for years—maybe himself, maybe something more concrete. People who are afraid tend to be unpredictable."

---

Back at his temporary office in Mrs. Abbott's bookstore, Ezra found three messages from clients on his voicemail. The first was Lucille Parker, thanking him for resolving her insurance claim. The second was Thomas Calvert, asking for a progress update on authenticating his memorabilia.

The third message made his stomach sink.

"Mr. Patel, this is Mark Reeves. I'm afraid I'll need to cancel our contract regarding the supplier dispute. I've been unable to reach you for two days, and my situation requires immediate attention. I've hired alternative representation. Your retainer check can be kept for services rendered thus far."

Another client lost. The second in one day.

Ezra sat heavily in his chair, confronting the professional consequences of his divided attention. While he'd been hunting forum phantoms and vinyl messages, his paying clients had been unable to reach him. His temporary relocation explained some of the disconnect, but not all.

Mrs. Abbott's words echoed in his mind: "When personal obsessions begin affecting client relationships, it's time to reassess priorities."

His phone rang, displaying "Unknown Caller" on the screen.

"Patel Investigations," he answered, voice automatically shifting to professional mode.

"You're looking in dangerous places." The voice was unmistakably Maxwell's, though it carried a ragged edge Ezra hadn't heard before. "The people who wanted those messages suppressed thirty years ago still have resources and motivation."

"Maxwell? How did you get this number?"

"Does it matter? Listen carefully—there are others with vested interests in keeping certain aspects of the past buried. Financial interests. Legal interests. Reputational interests."

"You mean Meridian Records."

"I mean people who benefit from the official narrative remaining undisturbed." Maxwell's voice lowered. "The journalist who's been asking questions around town? She received a cease and desist letter from Meridian's attorneys yesterday. They move quickly when they feel threatened."

"Why are you telling me this?"

A pause, then: "Because Isadora showed you her archives. Because you brought me that Northern Lights pressing. Because..." His voice faltered. "Because Aria deserves someone asking the right questions for the right reasons."

"What should I be asking that I'm not?"

"Focus on the pressings that disappeared," Maxwell said. "Not just messages removed from individual copies. Entire production batches that vanished after release." The connection crackled with static. "The pressing plant records might still exist in the county storage facility. Business tax documentation required copies of production logs."

"Maxwell, wait⁠—"

"Be careful with Sonny," Maxwell continued, ignoring the interruption. "He knows more than he admits, but he's been running scared for decades. With good reason."

The line went dead before Ezra could ask how Maxwell knew about tomorrow's meeting.

He sat motionless, processing this unexpected communication. Maxwell, who had slammed his door in Ezra's face and warned him away from the investigation, was now providing leads and expressing concern.

A soft knock at the door preceded Mrs. Abbott's entrance. "I'm closing the store early today," she announced. "Thought you should know in case you have appointments."

Ezra nodded, still distracted by Maxwell's call. "Mrs. Abbott, did you know a cutting engineer named Adrian Kelly? Goes by Sonny now?"

Her hands stilled on the doorknob. "Sonny? He's still in the area?"

"You know him?"

"He worked closely with Maxwell on all the album production. Technical genius with equipment." She entered the room fully, her interest clearly piqued. "He disappeared right after the plant closed. Most people assumed he'd left the state."

"He's been living under the radar. Repairs vintage audio equipment now." Ezra studied her reaction. "Maxwell just called to warn me about him. Said he's been 'running scared for decades.'"

"Maxwell called you?" Surprise colored her voice. "That's unusual. He rarely initiates contact with anyone."

"He seemed concerned that my investigation might stir up dangerous attention." Ezra hesitated, then added, "He mentioned entire pressing batches that disappeared after release."

Mrs. Abbott's expression closed slightly. "There were rumors about that. The European pressing of 'Midnight Reverberations' was recalled for 'quality issues' shortly after distribution. Collectors who held onto their copies discovered they contained the most explicit dead wax messages about contract terms."

"A deliberate suppression."

"It appeared that way." She moved to the window, looking out at the garden. "Victor Strand was meticulous about protecting Meridian's interests. When the dead wax messages began circulating among industry insiders, he took aggressive action."

"Including destroying evidence."

"Including manufacturing production problems that justified recalls." She turned back to face him. "Be careful with Sonny. His knowledge makes him valuable but also vulnerable. There's a reason he's been hiding all these years."

After she left, Ezra opened his laptop and began researching county storage facilities. If production logs still existed, they might provide documentation of which pressings were created, which were distributed, and which mysteriously disappeared.

His phone vibrated with a text message from Cecil:

"European collector just listed original German pressing of 'Midnight Reverberations' with complete contract warning in dead wax. Starting bid $5,000. Thought you should know."

Ezra stared at the message, calculating his remaining funds against his dwindling client base. Five thousand dollars represented more than a month's income from his legitimate business. Investing that amount in a record—even one potentially crucial to his investigation—seemed professionally irresponsible.

Yet the possibility of acquiring a pressing with the complete contract warnings—the pressing batch that had been systematically recalled and destroyed—was too significant to ignore.

He replied to Cecil: "Place proxy bid up to $5,500. Will transfer funds tomorrow."

The decision settled uncomfortably in his stomach. His professional stability was eroding while his collection of vinyl and dead wax fragments grew. The parallel with obsessive collectors he'd observed on forums wasn't lost on him—the willingness to sacrifice practical considerations for the pursuit of completion.

Ezra glanced at his legitimately assigned cases—Calvert's memorabilia authentication still required attention, and he had two potential new clients he hadn't yet contacted. His cork board remained in his water-damaged office, but the mental web of connections continued to expand.

Tomorrow's meeting with Sonny might provide crucial insights into the dead wax messages and their creation. The county storage facility might hold production records documenting suppressed pressings. The possible German pressing might contain the complete contract warnings that had triggered Meridian's aggressive response.

Multiple paths forward, all leading away from his established business and deeper into a thirty-year-old mystery with no paying client.

As evening shadows lengthened across the reading room, Ezra found himself confronting the same question that had presumably haunted Mrs. Abbott for decades: at what point does the pursuit of truth become its own form of obsession? And when that pursuit begins damaging other aspects of life, how do you determine which sacrifices are justified?

He had no answer yet. Only the knowledge that tomorrow's meeting at Taylor Creek Bridge would either validate his growing fixation or force him to reconsider his priorities entirely.

Morning mist clung to Taylor Creek Bridge, transforming the weathered wooden structure into a spectral threshold between worlds. Ezra arrived at 6:45 am, parking his car at the small turnout and walking the remaining distance. The creek below murmured its constant rhythm, water flowing over smooth stones, creating natural music that seemed appropriate for a meeting about sound preservation.

Leaning against the bridge railing, Ezra scanned the surrounding forest. No sign of Sonny yet. The early hour and remote location felt deliberately chosen—minimal chance of accidental witnesses, maximum privacy for whatever the reclusive engineer planned to share.

At precisely 7:00 am, the crunch of tires on gravel announced an arrival. An ancient Volvo station wagon appeared through the mist, its once-blue paint faded to a mottled gray. Sonny emerged, his silver ponytail tucked beneath a worn trucker cap, a small leather satchel clutched in one hand.

"You actually showed," he called as he approached. "Half expected you'd bring the sheriff or some corporate lawyer."

"You asked me to come alone," Ezra replied. "I did."

Sonny reached the bridge, stopping several feet away. "Maxwell called you, didn't he? Warned you about me."

"How did you know that?"

"Because he always hedges his bets." Sonny's laugh held little humor. "Thirty years of pushing people away while keeping just enough connection to monitor what they know." He gestured toward the center of the bridge. "Let's walk. Harder to record conversations when you're moving."

Ezra fell into step beside him. "Is that a concern? Being recorded?"

"Habit from the old days." Sonny's eyes constantly scanned their surroundings. "After the studio fire, after the lawsuits started, Meridian had people following some of us. Gathering evidence, they called it. Intimidation is what it was."

"What did they think you might reveal?"

"The truth about the contracts. About what they knew regarding Aria's plans to leave." Sonny's knuckles whitened around his satchel. "About what actually happened that day at Maxwell's cottage."

Ezra stopped walking. "Were you there? The day Aria disappeared?"

"Not inside. I was supposed to meet her afterward." Sonny's voice dropped. "She'd arranged for me to transfer some of her demo recordings to cassette masters. Material she wanted to take to Seattle."

"For her meeting with the independent studio."

Sonny's eyebrows rose. "You know about that?"

"Mrs. Abbott showed me the letter confirming her recording sessions."

"Isadora." Sonny's expression softened momentarily. "She still call herself Mrs. Abbott around town? Holding onto that persona all these years."

"What would you know about personas, Adrian? Or do you prefer Sonny?" Ezra kept his tone deliberately challenging. "You've been VinylSpecter online, Adrian Kelly in hiding, and Sonny to your audio repair clients."

Sonny's laugh was genuine this time. "Fair point. Some masks are harder to remove than others." He tapped his satchel. "This is why I asked you here. Not just to talk."

He unzipped the leather bag and carefully extracted a padded metal case about the size of a thick hardcover book. "These aren't the commercial releases. Not the remixed, polished performances everyone knows."

Opening the case revealed five small reel-to-reel tapes, each protected in transparent plastic and labeled with precise handwriting: "ARIA DEMOS – SOLO VOICE – STUDIO B."

"Raw recordings," Sonny explained, his voice taking on reverential quality. "Aria alone in the studio. Just her voice, occasional guitar accompaniment. No band, no production tricks, no Maxwell filtering her talent through his artistic vision."

"How did you get these?" Ezra asked, instinctively reaching toward the tapes before catching himself.

"I made them." Sonny's pride was evident. "Studio B at Maxwell's place had a separate recording feed I installed. Two-track capture direct to tape. Aria knew about it—she specifically requested these sessions be documented this way."

"Away from Maxwell's control."

"Away from everyone's control." Sonny carefully closed the case. "She wanted a record of her true voice before it got processed through the industry machine."

"Why show these to me now?"

"Because you're asking different questions than the journalists and collectors." Sonny handed him the metal case. "You're not just looking for sensational stories or valuable artifacts. You're mapping a pattern that points to something specific."

"The truth about her death," Ezra said.

"Maybe." Sonny glanced over his shoulder, a habitual movement that spoke of years of caution. "Listen to these with Isadora. She deserves to hear her daughter's unfiltered voice. Then call this number." He handed Ezra a folded paper. "Only after you've listened. I need to know if you hear what I heard."

"Which is what?"

"A young woman planning a future, not an ending." Sonny stepped back. "I've spent thirty years keeping these safe. Don't make me regret trusting you with them."

"I won't," Ezra promised, carefully tucking the case inside his jacket. "But I still have questions about the dead wax messages."

"Listen first. Questions later." Sonny turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing—these need a professional playback system. The tapes are old, fragile. You'll need proper equipment to avoid damaging them."

"Any suggestions?"

"Marcus at the radio station. He's got the technical skill and the right equipment." Sonny hesitated. "Don't tell him I gave you these. As far as he knows, you found them through your investigation."

Before Ezra could respond, Sonny was already walking briskly back toward his car, shoulders hunched as if expecting pursuit. The ancient Volvo disappeared into the thinning morning mist, leaving Ezra alone on the bridge with his precious cargo.

---

"Where did you get these?" Mrs. Abbott's hands trembled slightly as she examined the tape reels Ezra had placed on her bookstore counter.

"A source who worked at the studio." Ezra deliberately kept details vague. "They're apparently raw demos of Aria singing solo, without the band or production."

Mrs. Abbott's fingers traced the handwritten labels with reverent care. "I recognize this handwriting. These were part of her private sessions. Material she was developing independently from what Maxwell selected for the albums."

"The source suggested we take them to Marcus at WCVR for proper playback. Said the tapes require specialized equipment to avoid damage."

"Of course they do." Mrs. Abbott carefully returned the reels to their protective case. "Quality preservation always does." She glanced at the clock behind her counter. "The station doesn't open until noon. I'll call Jenna to make sure Marcus is available."

"You want to come?" Ezra hadn't expected her interest in being directly involved.

"These are my daughter's voice captured in her most authentic moments." Mrs. Abbott's tone made clear how absurd his question was. "Of course I'll be there."

While she made the call, Ezra examined the book display she'd been arranging. The titles formed a thematic collection around memory and preservation: "The Archival Impulse," "Saving the Ephemeral," "Voices from the Past." He wondered if this was coincidence or another example of her emotional categorization system responding to the morning's discovery.

"Marcus will see us at 12:30 pm," Mrs. Abbott announced, hanging up the phone. "He's quite interested in what we've found. Said he has the appropriate playback system for archival audio."

"Do you want me to drive?"

She shook her head. "I'll close the store for lunch. We'll take my car. It has better suspension for transporting fragile media."

---

The WCVR station appeared different in daylight than during Ezra's previous evening visit. Solar panels gleamed on the south-facing roof, and a small garden of native plants surrounded the converted bungalow. Mrs. Abbott parked with deliberate care in the gravel lot, engaging the emergency brake even though the ground was perfectly level.

Marcus greeted them at the door, his gray beard neatly trimmed, wire-rimmed glasses reflecting afternoon sunlight. "Isadora. Wonderful to see you." He embraced Mrs. Abbott with the familiarity of old friendship before turning to Ezra. "And our determined investigator. Jenna mentioned you found some original recordings?"

"Demo tapes from Aria's solo sessions," Ezra explained, producing the metal case. "I understand they need specialized playback equipment."

"Indeed they do." Marcus accepted the case with professional reverence. "Quarter-inch tape from that era requires specific tension settings and playback equalization. Follow me to the preservation room."

He led them through the station's main studio—currently playing automated music programming with no DJ present—to a smaller room at the building's rear. Unlike the broadcast studio with its modern digital equipment, this space felt like a technological sanctuary dedicated to analog preservation. Reel-to-reel machines of various sizes lined one wall, while specialized cleaning equipment and measurement devices occupied carefully organized workbenches.

"My personal passion," Marcus explained, noticing Ezra's interest. "Preserving audio history before magnetic degradation and format obsolescence erase it completely."

"It's beautiful," Ezra said honestly, appreciating the meticulous organization of the technical equipment.

Marcus selected a professional-grade tape machine, its metal case gleaming under the specialized lighting. "This Studer A807 was the industry standard for audio archiving. Perfect tension control, minimal wow and flutter, appropriate equalization for studio recordings of that era."

As he carefully prepared the machine, checking levels and cleaning heads with practiced movements, Mrs. Abbott stood perfectly still, her composure visibly tightening like a string being tuned.

"Are you okay?" Ezra asked quietly.

"It's been many years since I've heard my daughter's voice in a form not filtered through commercial releases," she replied, her voice controlled but thin. "I'm preparing myself."

Marcus gently removed the first tape from its container, examining it carefully before threading it onto the machine. "These appear to be in excellent condition. Properly stored, minimal oxide shedding." He turned to Mrs. Abbott. "Ready?"

She nodded once, sharply.

Marcus pressed the play button, and after a moment of tape hiss, the room filled with sound.

A young woman's voice emerged with startling clarity—Aria, speaking rather than singing, her tone casual as she addressed someone in the studio:

"Level check, level check. How's that coming through? Can we get a little more in the headphones?"

A technician's muffled response was followed by Aria again:

"Perfect. I'll start with 'River Memory,' then move to the new pieces. These are just sketches, remember. Raw material."

Then came the sound of a single guitar chord, followed by silence. When Aria began to sing, the effect was electric. Her voice filled the small room with such presence that Ezra felt as if she had materialized before them—not the polished voice from commercial recordings but something more intimate, more vulnerable, and somehow more powerful.

The song itself was familiar from The Starlight Wanderers' catalog, but this version stripped away all production elements, revealing the skeletal beauty of the composition. Aria's voice moved with fluid confidence through complex melodies, occasionally pausing to adjust a phrase or repeat a section.

Ezra glanced at Mrs. Abbott. She stood with eyes closed, hands clasped before her, tears streaming silently down her face. Her lips moved slightly, forming words in perfect synchronization with her daughter's voice—knowing every syllable, every breath.

Between songs, Aria's casual studio conversation revealed glimpses of her personality and thought process:

"That bridge section still isn't right. The imagery needs to be more specific—not just falling, but transformation during the descent. Like Alice down the rabbit hole, but with agency rather than accident."

And later, more pointedly:

"I want this arrangement preserved exactly as we're doing it now. No additional production, no Maxwell filter. This is how it should sound—simple, direct, honest."

As the first tape concluded, Marcus stopped the machine, the silence that followed feeling almost sacrilegious after what they'd heard.

"There are technical anomalies here," he observed, rewinding the tape slightly. "Listen to this section."

He played a segment where Aria's voice suddenly changed perspective, as if she had turned away from the microphone mid-phrase. The audio quality shifted subtly before returning to its previous clarity.

"That's an edit point," Marcus explained. "Not done particularly well. Someone modified this tape after the original recording."

"Removed something?" Ezra asked.

"Most likely. There's a slight discontinuity in the ambient room noise. Professional engineers call it a 'room tone mismatch.' Easy to spot if you know what to listen for."

Mrs. Abbott opened her eyes, focusing on the tape machine with sudden intensity. "Can you tell what might have been removed?"

"Impossible to know for certain," Marcus replied. "But based on the length of the discontinuity—about twenty seconds—I'd guess it was conversation rather than musical content."

"Someone censored these tapes," Ezra concluded. "Even though they were Aria's private sessions."

Marcus moved to the second reel, carefully mounting it on the machine. "Shall we continue?"

Mrs. Abbott nodded, composing herself. "All of them, please."

The second tape revealed similar patterns—extraordinary musical performances interspersed with studio chatter that often contained more pointed commentary:

"Meridian's lawyers sent another contract amendment. More restrictions on what constitutes 'derivative works.' They're trying to claim ownership of anything even remotely connected to material created under contract."

Later, her voice took on a harder edge:

"Father says I should be grateful for the opportunity. 'Father.' Like he's earned the title. Twenty years of convenience parenting, showing up when the music flows, disappearing when actual responsibility looms."

Mrs. Abbott's breath caught audibly at this, her hand moving to her throat as if physically pained.

The third tape contained what appeared to be production notes for songs that never appeared on official releases. Aria's voice discussed arrangements with unnamed musicians, occasionally breaking into melodic demonstrations so beautiful they seemed casual impossibilities.

Then came a section that made Ezra lean forward in his chair:

"Seattle session is confirmed for the 20th. Just need to get through the contract meeting on the 16th without tipping my hand. Once I've made my position clear, I'll have three days to get out of town before they can mobilize their legal response."

The 16th—the day Aria disappeared. The date Maxwell had mentioned meeting with Meridian Records lawyers. The day of her alleged suicide.

"She had an exit strategy," Ezra said quietly.

"Of course she did," Mrs. Abbott replied, her voice steadier now. "My daughter wasn't self-destructive. She was strategic."

The fourth tape contained songs with lyrics that seemed particularly significant given what they now knew:

"The river knows secrets that mountains keep hidden, Carrying truth from the source to the sea. What looks like surrender might be liberation, A current that carries me where I should be."

The aquatic imagery that had previously seemed like poetic metaphor now carried unmistakable connection to her disappearance at Singer's Fall.

As they reached the fifth and final tape, Marcus paused before loading it. "This one has different labeling. 'Final Session – Private' is handwritten on the box."

Mrs. Abbott leaned closer to examine it. "That's Aria's handwriting, not the technician's like the others."

The tape began with no preamble, no studio chatter—just Aria's voice, intimately close to the microphone, speaking rather than singing:

"This is my final recording session at Riverside Studio. For those who might hear this later, I want to clarify certain truths before they get rewritten by those with vested interests in different narratives."

Her voice took on a formal quality, as if providing testimony:

"I am leaving The Starlight Wanderers and Meridian Records. Not because I'm ungrateful for the opportunities, but because the cost has become too high. The contract terms are predatory, the creative constraints suffocating, and the personal dynamics unsustainable."

She paused, a deep breath audible on the recording.

"Maxwell knows nothing about this recording. If you're hearing this, it means I've successfully executed my departure plan and retained at least some control over my own voice. If these tapes have been altered or destroyed, that too tells its own story."

Another pause, followed by words that sent a chill through the room:

"If anything happens to me before I reach Seattle, it won't be by my own hand. I have too much to live for, too much music still to create. I am not fragile or desperate—I am determined and prepared."

The tape continued with Aria singing what sounded like a final statement—a song Ezra had never heard on any Starlight Wanderers album. The lyrics spoke of rivers as pathways rather than endings, of falling as transformation rather than destruction.

When the final note faded, the room remained silent except for the gentle hiss of blank tape. Marcus stopped the machine, his professional demeanor momentarily cracked by what they'd heard.

"That," he said finally, "was not the statement of someone planning suicide."

Mrs. Abbott rose abruptly, moving to the window where sunlight created a sharp contrast to the room's dim technical atmosphere. "She knew the risks she was taking. Understood that challenging Meridian might have consequences." Her voice remained controlled but carried undercurrents of decades-old rage. "She left this testimony as insurance. Insurance that failed."

Ezra's mind raced, connecting these recordings to what he'd already discovered. "She deliberately created multiple records of her intentions—the Seattle studio letter, these tapes, the dead wax messages. Distributed evidence that couldn't be completely suppressed."

"A strategy she likely learned from Maxwell himself," Mrs. Abbott observed. "His information security approach ironically turned against his own interests."

Marcus began carefully rewinding the tapes. "These recordings should be digitally preserved before the magnetic medium deteriorates further. With your permission, I could create archival copies."

"Yes," Mrs. Abbott agreed immediately. "We need multiple safeguards this time."

Ezra recalled the folded paper Sonny had given him. "I should make a call. The person who provided these tapes wanted to know our reaction."

Mrs. Abbott raised an eyebrow. "You've been protective of your source."

"Professional habit," Ezra replied, not quite meeting her eyes. "Do you mind if I step outside?"

Once in the parking lot, Ezra unfolded the paper and dialed the number. It rang three times before Sonny's cautious voice answered.

"You've listened."

"Yes. With Mrs. Abbott and Marcus. You were right—these aren't the recordings of someone planning suicide."

"They're a preemptive defense," Sonny replied. "Insurance against exactly what happened—her voice being silenced and her intentions rewritten."

"She explicitly stated that if anything happened to her before reaching Seattle, it wouldn't be by her own hand." Ezra paced beside Mrs. Abbott's car. "That's practically a recorded premonition."

"Or knowledge of specific threats." Sonny's voice lowered. "The contract meeting at Maxwell's cottage wasn't just about legal terms. It was an ambush—Strand and his legal team coming prepared to prevent her departure by any means necessary."

"Were you there? Did you witness what happened?"

"No. I was supposed to meet Aria afterward to help transfer these tapes to portable cassettes for her trip." A heavy pause. "I waited at the arranged location for hours. She never showed."

"What do you think happened to her?"

"I think Meridian Records had millions of dollars at stake if she successfully challenged their contract. I think Victor Strand was capable of extreme measures to protect those interests." Sonny's voice hardened. "And I think Maxwell was too compromised—by alcohol, by divided loyalties, by his own failures as a father—to protect her when it mattered most."

Mrs. Abbott emerged from the station building, her expression composed but her eyes revealing the emotional impact of hearing her daughter's voice in such raw form.

"I need to go," Ezra said quickly. "Thank you for trusting us with these recordings."

"There's more to show you," Sonny replied. "But not over the phone. The production records at county storage—find those next. They document which pressings were deliberately recalled, which matrix stampers were mysteriously damaged."

"I will."

"And Ezra?" Sonny's voice took on an urgent quality. "Watch Mrs. Abbott carefully. The last person who found these tapes and shared them with her subsequently disappeared under mysterious circumstances."

"Who was that?"

"A sound engineer named Thomas Wells. Former colleague from CovenVinyl. Found these in Maxwell's studio after the fire, brought them to Isadora in '95. His car was discovered at Covenridge Lookout three days later. Body never recovered."

The call disconnected before Ezra could respond. He stood motionless in the parking lot, the spring sunshine suddenly feeling cold against his skin. Mrs. Abbott approached, carrying the metal case containing the tapes.

"Marcus is making digital copies," she said. "He'll call when they're ready." She studied his face carefully. "Your source shared something distressing."

Ezra debated how much to reveal before deciding on honesty. "He mentioned someone named Thomas Wells who apparently found these tapes in the mid-90s and disappeared after sharing them with you."

Mrs. Abbott's expression did not change, but something in her posture shifted subtly. "Thomas was a kind man. Thoughtful. He believed I deserved to hear these recordings of my daughter." She unlocked her car with deliberate movements. "His disappearance was a tragedy never properly investigated, like so many connected to Aria's story."

"Mrs. Abbott," Ezra began carefully, "how many people have tried to uncover the truth about what happened to Aria? Before me, I mean."

She placed the tape case carefully in her trunk before answering. "Many have scratched the surface. A few have reached deeper levels. None have connected all the elements you're assembling." Her eyes met his with uncomfortable directness. "Perhaps because none combined your investigative methodology with your particular motivation."

"And what motivation is that?"

"The pure desire to know," she replied. "Uncomplicated by grief, untainted by guilt. Most who look into Aria's death want something beyond truth—absolution, revenge, journalistic acclaim, collector's bragging rights. You simply want the pattern to be complete."

The insight was uncomfortably accurate. Ezra had begun this investigation out of professional curiosity, but it had transformed into something more fundamental—a need to assemble scattered fragments into coherent narrative, regardless of where that narrative led.

On the drive back to Resonant Pages, neither spoke. The car filled instead with the echoes of Aria's voice—not physically present but impossible to unhear once experienced. Her final recorded testimony had transformed her from historical subject to active participant in the investigation of her own fate.

The voice on vinyl and magnetic tape had spoken directly across decades, challenging the official narrative of despair and suicide with the clear declaration of a young woman with plans, determination, and a future she never got to realize.

The abandoned CovenVinyl pressing plant loomed against the morning sky, its weathered brick façade bearing thirty years of neglect. Chain-link fence surrounded the property, topped with rusted barbed wire that sagged in places. Warning signs declaring "CONDEMNED STRUCTURE" and "NO TRESPASSING" had faded to ghostly outlines, barely legible in the early light.

Ezra parked his car on a service road behind an overgrown loading area, positioning it to remain hidden from casual passersby. The demo tapes' revelations still echoed in his mind, Aria's voice declaring with certainty that if anything happened to her, it wouldn't be by her own hand. Finding the production records at the county storage facility was now on his list, but first, the pressing plant itself might yield answers about the physical creation of those dead wax messages.

He retrieved his backpack containing a flashlight, camera, notebook, and the small brass key Mrs. Abbott had given him. Martin Gellert's warning about structural hazards nagged at him as he approached the building—roof collapse, rotted floors, unstable walls. The methodical investigator in him recognized the risks, but the pull of potential evidence was stronger.

The side entrance wasn't immediately obvious—a nondescript metal door partially hidden behind overgrown shrubs. The key slid into the lock with surprising ease, turning smoothly despite years of disuse.

"Someone's been maintaining this," Ezra murmured to himself, noticing the well-oiled mechanism.

Inside, darkness enveloped him. He clicked on his flashlight, its beam cutting through thick air heavy with the smell of mold, oil, and decaying paper. The narrow hallway before him led deeper into the building, its walls lined with peeling safety notices and production schedules frozen in time from April 1992, the plant's final month of operation.

Ezra moved cautiously, testing each step before committing his weight. The floor seemed solid enough here, but water damage stained the ceiling in long brown streaks, suggesting worse conditions ahead. His flashlight beam revealed doors on either side—offices and administrative spaces now stripped of anything valuable.

Following the main corridor, he emerged into the plant's central production area—a cavernous space where ceiling-high windows, many now broken, allowed shafts of dusty sunlight to illuminate massive machinery standing in silent rows. Vinyl pressing equipment, once hot with industrial activity, now sat cold and abandoned.

Ezra paused, orienting himself. Sonny's detailed descriptions of the production process helped him identify different stations: mixing areas where vinyl compound was prepared, pressing machines where the actual records were formed, quality control tables where each pressing was inspected before packaging. Everything remained in place, as if the workers had simply walked out one day expecting to return.

"Start at the beginning," he told himself, recalling Sonny's explanation of how records were created.

The mastering room would be where it all began—where original recordings were transferred to master lacquer discs, the first physical step in vinyl production. According to the building schematics he'd studied before arriving, that specialized space should be on the second floor.

A metal staircase led upward along one wall. Ezra tested the first step, finding it solid despite a concerning groan from its moorings. He ascended carefully, keeping close to the wall where structural support would be strongest. At the top, a heavy door with a small window of wire-reinforced glass bore a faded sign: "MASTERING – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY."

The door wasn't locked. Inside, dust-covered equipment filled a space designed for precision work. Ezra swept his flashlight across cutting lathes, specialized turntables, and monitoring systems arranged around a central workstation. This was where engineers like Sonny had converted tape recordings into physical grooves on lacquer discs, the first step in creating vinyl records.

"This is where the dead wax messages would have been added," Ezra said aloud, his voice absorbed by the room's acoustic design.

He approached one of the cutting lathes, its massive form resembling an industrial sewing machine more than audio equipment. A microscope mounted beside it would have allowed the engineer to monitor the cutting process with micron-level precision. Beside the lathe sat a small tool rack containing implements similar to those Maxwell had shown him—specialized styli for manual inscription.

Ezra photographed everything methodically, documenting the equipment that had physically created the messages at the heart of his investigation. But personal notes and production records were conspicuously absent—no logbooks, no documentation of which messages were etched into which masters.

Moving further into the space, he discovered a door marked "VAULT" at the rear of the mastering room. Unlike the unimpressive side entrance, this one featured serious security—a heavy steel door with both key and combination locks. Whatever lay beyond had been considered valuable enough to protect even as the rest of the facility fell into abandonment.

Using his security background, Ezra examined the locks carefully. The key lock showed scratch marks around its opening—signs of forced entry from long ago. He tried the handle and found it unlocked, the security system already compromised by previous intruders.

The door swung open with a protesting shriek of neglected hinges. Ezra's flashlight revealed a climate-controlled room now failing in its purpose—moisture had seeped in through ceiling cracks, and the temperature regulation system had died years ago. Metal shelving lined the walls, designed to hold master recordings and production documentation.

Most shelves stood empty, their contents long removed. But in the far corner, partially hidden behind a collapsed section of ceiling tile, several boxes remained. Ezra approached carefully, testing the floor with each step. The boxes bore labels identifying them as production materials for The Starlight Wanderers' final album.

"What didn't they take?" he wondered aloud, carefully opening the first box.

Inside lay a treasure trove of technical documentation—cutting notes, pressing specifications, and most importantly, a detailed log of matrix variations. Each entry described which stamper was created from which master, complete with notations about dead wax content. Different versions were clearly identified: "Standard release," "European distribution," "Test pressing – full message," and most intriguingly, "Alternate ending – limited distribution."

Ezra photographed each page, his excitement building. This was exactly what he'd hoped to find—concrete evidence that multiple versions had been deliberately created with different dead wax messages. The logs even specified which pressing batches had been recalled for "quality control issues" after release—the same European pressings Mrs. Abbott had mentioned.

The second box contained even more revealing materials: correspondence between plant management and Meridian Records, including a letter explicitly requesting the destruction of specific stampers. The letter, signed by Victor Strand himself, cited "unauthorized content in run-out grooves requiring immediate quality control action."

"They knew exactly what they were suppressing," Ezra murmured, carefully documenting the letter.

The final box proved most valuable of all. At the bottom, beneath production schedules and shipping manifests, lay a master log listing every dead wax message created for The Starlight Wanderers' albums, identified by pressing batch and distribution region. The messages, when arranged in the sequence indicated, formed a coherent warning about contract terms, rights exploitation, and specifically, the "death transfer provisions" that would later become so relevant after Aria's disappearance.

A crash from somewhere below interrupted his documentation. Ezra froze, listening intently. Another sound followed—not random structural failure but deliberate movement. Someone else was in the building.

He quickly but carefully repacked the boxes, leaving them exactly as he'd found them. After taking a final set of photographs, he turned off his flashlight and moved toward the door, listening for further sounds.

Footsteps echoed in the main production area, a measured pace suggesting someone familiar with the layout. Not the random exploration of urban explorers or teenagers looking for trouble, but purposeful movement.

Ezra considered his options. The stairs he'd used to reach the mastering room would leave him exposed if someone was watching from below. A quick sweep of his flashlight revealed another exit—a maintenance ladder leading to a catwalk above the main floor. It would allow him to observe whoever had entered without immediately revealing his presence.

The metal ladder protested slightly under his weight but held firm. From the catwalk's vantage point, Ezra could see most of the production floor while remaining in shadow. He clicked off his flashlight and waited.

A beam of light swept across the machinery below. As it moved closer to his position, it illuminated its holder—Maxwell Richards, his silver hair and distinctive hat unmistakable even from above.

Maxwell moved with surprising agility for his age, navigating the abandoned equipment with the confidence of someone intimately familiar with the space. He paused beneath the mastering room staircase, shining his light upward.

"I know you're here, Patel," he called, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "Your car isn't as well hidden as you think."

Ezra remained silent, calculating his next move.

"The catwalk isn't safe," Maxwell continued, moving his light toward Ezra's position. "Those support bolts corroded years ago. If you're up there, I suggest coming down before you join the rest of this place in structural failure."

As if confirming his warning, the metal beneath Ezra's feet shifted slightly with a concerning groan. The risk of remaining in place suddenly outweighed the advantage of the hidden vantage point.

"I'm coming down," Ezra called back, carefully retracing his path to the ladder. Each step produced an alarming creak from the catwalk's supports.

Once safely back in the mastering room, he descended the main staircase to where Maxwell waited, looking more resigned than angry.

"How did you know I'd be here?" Ezra asked.

"Because it's the logical next step after the demo tapes," Maxwell replied, surprising Ezra with his knowledge. "Sonny's always been predictable in his revelations. First the artist's voice, then the physical evidence of production manipulation."

"You've been monitoring my investigation."

"Of course I have." Maxwell gestured around the abandoned factory. "Everyone connected to this place has. The community radio calls, the conversations at Dahlia's, Cecil's sudden discoveries of rare pressings—did you think those were coincidences?"

Ezra processed this revelation, recalibrating his understanding of Covenridge's information flow. "They've been steering me."

"Guiding you toward certain discoveries in controlled sequence," Maxwell corrected. "Testing your reactions before revealing more."

"Including you?"

Maxwell's smile held no warmth. "I've been the most cautious. Had to be. I have the most to lose if the wrong aspects of this history get amplified." He glanced up toward the mastering room. "Find anything interesting in the vault?"

"Production logs. Matrix variation records. Correspondence about recalled pressings." Ezra watched Maxwell's face for reaction. "Evidence that Meridian deliberately suppressed certain dead wax messages."

"Not surprising. The question is what you plan to do with that information." Maxwell moved toward a large pressing machine, running his hand along its dusty surface with unexpected tenderness. "This was the primary press for our albums. Could produce a thousand units per day when running at capacity."

The gesture seemed designed to redirect the conversation, but Ezra persisted. "The logs show multiple versions of the final album's matrix—different stampers created from modified masters. Each containing different dead wax messages or none at all."

"Technical necessity," Maxwell replied dismissively. "Different pressing plants required different specifications."

"That doesn't explain why Meridian Records ordered the destruction of specific stampers after they realized what messages they contained."

Maxwell's expression hardened. "You've found exactly what you expected to find—corporate control of artistic expression. Record company suppression of inconvenient truths. Is that enough to satisfy your detective instincts, or are you still looking for something more dramatic?"

"I'm looking for what happened to Aria," Ezra said directly. "The demo tapes make it clear she wasn't suicidal. She explicitly stated that if anything happened to her before reaching Seattle, it wouldn't be by her own hand."

For a moment, Maxwell seemed to age before Ezra's eyes, the carefully maintained façade cracking to reveal the weight of decades of knowledge. He leaned heavily against the pressing machine before speaking.

"She wasn't just my featured vocalist," he said finally, his voice lower. "She was my daughter. My blood. And I failed to protect her from the very industry machinery I'd helped build around her."

"The contract meeting," Ezra prompted. "What really happened that day?"

Maxwell gestured toward a small office area off the main floor. "Not here. Too many unstable structures, literal and metaphorical. There's something else you should see first."

He led the way through the production area toward a door marked "ELECTROPLATING." Unlike other parts of the facility, this room's entrance had been secured with a padlock—now hanging broken from the latch, evidence of forced entry long ago.

"This is where masters became stampers," Maxwell explained, pushing the door open. "The critical transition from one-of-a-kind lacquer to the metal plates that could produce thousands of copies."

Inside, chemical baths long evaporated had left crystal formations in large tanks. Specialized equipment for electroplating—the process of coating the lacquer masters with metal to create stampers—stood in dusty rows. But Maxwell's attention focused on a workbench at the far end where several metal discs lay in various states of decay.

"Matrix stampers," he said, approaching the bench. "The industrial mothers that gave birth to every vinyl record created here."

Ezra followed, noting how the metal plates featured grooves in reverse—negative impressions that would create the positive grooves on vinyl records. Each bore handwritten identification numbers around its edge.

"Production number S-317," Maxwell said, pointing to one plate. "The European pressing of 'Midnight Reverberations' with the complete contract warning in the dead wax. Officially destroyed upon Meridian's request. Unofficially preserved by certain plant employees with principles."

"They saved evidence of what Meridian was trying to suppress," Ezra observed.

"Self-preservation as much as principles," Maxwell replied. "When corporations start destroying evidence, smart employees keep insurance copies."

He picked up another metal stamper, this one more deteriorated than the others. "This was the true final version. Limited to ten test pressings, never commercially released. Contains Aria's personal statement rather than contract warnings."

"What did it say?" Ezra asked, already reaching for his camera.

"The truth about her paternity. About exploitation beyond just contractual terms. About her plans to reclaim her voice." Maxwell's finger traced the outer edge where the dead wax would be located. "The message Strand feared most wasn't about legal clauses—it was personal testimony that couldn't be dismissed as artistic hyperbole."

Ezra photographed the stamper, though its deteriorated condition made the grooves difficult to discern clearly.

"These stampers were supposedly destroyed in a documented quality control action," Maxwell continued. "Someone risked their job to preserve them here."

"Sonny?"

Maxwell nodded. "Adrian had more integrity than most of us. Refused to participate in erasure of Aria's final communications."

A sudden crack from overhead interrupted their conversation. Both men looked up to see a widening fissure in the ceiling, water damage having finally compromised structural integrity.

"We need to move," Maxwell said urgently, heading toward the door. "This section has been deteriorating for years."

They barely cleared the doorway when a segment of ceiling collapsed, sending dust and debris cascading into the electroplating room. The impact shook the floor beneath them, triggering another structural failure as support beams shifted.

"This way," Maxwell directed, leading Ezra toward a side exit rather than retracing their path to the main entrance. "This building has been trying to finish collapsing for a decade."

They navigated around unstable areas, Maxwell showing surprising familiarity with which sections to avoid. Another crack echoed through the building as they reached a metal door leading outside.

"You've been here multiple times," Ezra observed as they stepped into sunlight, the immediate danger behind them.

"Occasionally." Maxwell brushed dust from his clothing with practiced nonchalance. "I'm not the only one. Various interested parties have made pilgrimages to this industrial relic over the years."

"Including someone from Meridian Records?" Ezra pressed. "The broken vault lock suggests forced entry long ago."

Maxwell's expression darkened. "Victor Strand sent people to secure certain materials after the plant closed. They weren't thorough enough to find everything, evidently." He gestured toward Ezra's backpack. "You've got what you came for—photographic evidence of deliberate message manipulation across different pressings. Will that satisfy your investigation?"

"Not while questions about Aria's death remain unanswered," Ezra replied. "The production records confirm corporate motive for suppressing her voice, but they don't explain what happened that day at your cottage."

The sun had risen fully now, illuminating Maxwell's face with unforgiving clarity. The lines around his eyes deepened as he chose his next words.

"Some matrices can't be altered once they've created impressions," he said finally. "Some grooves run too deep to be erased or overwritten." He met Ezra's gaze directly. "I wasn't just conveniently drunk that day—I was deliberately incapacitated."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying Strand arrived with more than lawyers. I'm saying my 'blackout' wasn't entirely alcohol-induced. And I'm saying Aria saw and heard things during that meeting that made her an immediate liability rather than a future contract dispute."

Before Ezra could process this revelation, the sound of an approaching vehicle caught both men's attention. A black SUV with tinted windows turned into the plant's access road, moving with deliberate purpose toward their position.

"Right on schedule," Maxwell muttered. "They monitor this place periodically. Someone must have reported activity."

"Who are they?" Ezra asked, already moving toward cover behind an overgrown loading dock.

"Strand's legal cleanup crew. Technically corporate security for Meridian's parent company, but their real job is maintaining preferred narratives about the label's history." Maxwell joined him in concealment. "They won't be happy to find us here."

"We need to get to our vehicles," Ezra said, assessing their position relative to the parking area.

"Separate and circle back," Maxwell suggested. "They're looking for unauthorized access to the building, not necessarily specific individuals. Your car is less recognizable than my truck."

The SUV stopped near the main entrance, and two men in dark suits emerged. They moved with the professional efficiency of security personnel, scanning the area before approaching the building.

"Go," Maxwell whispered. "I'll create a diversion at the east side, draw them away from the vehicles."

"Meet me at Dahlia's in two hours," Ezra said. "We need to finish this conversation."

Maxwell's smile held grim amusement. "If I'm not there, check the county jail." With surprising agility, he slipped away through the overgrowth surrounding the loading area.

Ezra waited until the security men had entered the building before making his move, keeping low as he circled back toward his car. From the east side of the complex came the sudden sound of breaking glass—Maxwell's promised diversion.

By the time the security personnel emerged to investigate, Ezra had reached his vehicle and was pulling away, staying on service roads until he was well clear of the plant. In his rearview mirror, he could see the black SUV racing toward Maxwell's diversion, away from his escape route.

The evidence secured in his backpack—photographs of production logs, matrix variations, and Meridian's suppression orders—connected more pieces of the puzzle. But Maxwell's parting revelation had added an even more disturbing dimension: deliberate incapacitation, corporate security rather than mere lawyers, and the suggestion that Aria had witnessed something that transformed her from contractual problem to immediate threat.

Ezra checked his watch—10:15 am. Two hours until his meeting with Maxwell at Dahlia's coffee shop, assuming the older man successfully evaded Meridian's security team. Time to back up his photographic evidence and prepare for what promised to be a crucial conversation about exactly what had happened the day Aria disappeared.

The master recordings had created impressions on lacquer. Those impressions had transferred to metal matrices and stampers. Those stampers had created vinyl records dispersed across continents. And through all those transfers and transformations, fragments of truth had survived despite deliberate corporate efforts at erasure.

Now Ezra needed to assemble those fragments into the complete picture—a matrix of evidence revealing what really happened thirty years ago when a young singer with plans for independence disappeared at Singer's Fall.

Dahlia's coffee shop hummed with unusual energy for a weekday afternoon. Ezra arrived fifteen minutes early for his meeting with Maxwell, securing a corner table with clear sightlines to both the entrance and the back exit. He ordered "Maxwell's Melody," the symbolism not lost on him as he waited to see if the man himself would appear after their narrow escape from the pressing plant.

"You look like you've been crawling around abandoned buildings," Dahlia remarked, setting down his coffee. She brushed dust from his shoulder with a familiarity that would have seemed presumptuous weeks ago.

"Just doing some historical research," Ezra replied carefully.

"In the old CovenVinyl plant, no doubt." Dahlia's voice dropped to a near whisper. "Those matrix stampers have attracted quite a few researchers over the years."

Ezra's surprise must have shown on his face.

"Small town," she reminded him with a half-smile. "And that particular building has significance to more than just record collectors." She glanced toward the door. "Are you expecting someone?"

"Maxwell said he'd meet me here."

Dahlia's eyebrows rose. "That would be unprecedented. He hasn't set foot in this shop in years, though I bring him coffee regularly."

"We had to separate quickly. Security personnel arrived at the plant while we were there."

"Meridian's watchdogs." Dahlia nodded without surprise. "They make periodic sweeps of places connected to the band's history." She straightened as the shop's bell chimed. "Speaking of history in motion..."

Victor Strand entered the coffee shop, his expensive suit and meticulously styled silver hair marking him as an outsider in Covenridge's casual environment. Ezra recognized him immediately from photos in the music industry articles he'd researched—the record executive from Meridian who had figured so prominently in allegations about Aria's contract disputes.

"Well, well," Dahlia murmured. "The vulture returns to the scene." She moved toward the counter with deliberate nonchalance, though Ezra noticed how she positioned herself to monitor the new arrival.

Strand scanned the shop before approaching the counter. His posture radiated the easy confidence of someone accustomed to power, though age had softened his once-imposing frame.

"Ms. Greenwood," he acknowledged Dahlia with forced politeness. "Still serving the finest coffee in the valley, I'm told."

"Mr. Strand," she replied, her customer service smile not reaching her eyes. "Rare to see you in Covenridge outside festival season. What brings you to town early this year?"

"Preparation for the retrospective exhibition. Thirtieth anniversary arrangements." He glanced around the shop. "I understand Maxwell's been more active in town recently. Emerging from his hermitage, so to speak."

"You'd have to ask Maxwell about his schedule." Dahlia maintained her professional demeanor. "What can I get you?"

"Americano, extra shot." He placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. "And perhaps some local insight about the Summer Solstice Festival tomorrow? I hear it's featuring a tribute to The Starlight Wanderers this year."

While Dahlia prepared his coffee, keeping up a stream of vague pleasantries about the festival arrangements, Ezra observed Strand carefully. The executive carried himself with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to navigating difficult conversations, but subtle tells—the tightness around his eyes, the way his fingers drummed briefly on the counter—suggested underlying tension.

The bell chimed again, and this time Maxwell entered. He spotted Strand immediately, his body language shifting from casual to alert in an instant. For a moment, it seemed he might turn and leave, but then his eyes found Ezra in the corner. With visible effort, Maxwell straightened his shoulders and approached Ezra's table, deliberately turning his back to Strand.

"You made it," Ezra said quietly as Maxwell took the seat opposite him.

"Barely." Maxwell's voice was tense, his eyes flicking toward the counter where Strand was now watching them openly. "Had to cut through Parson's Creek to lose those security goons. Apparently corporate tenacity doesn't extend to wet shoes."

"I didn't expect to see Strand here," Ezra admitted. "Interesting timing."

"Nothing coincidental about it," Maxwell replied. "He's had informants in town for decades. Probably heard about our visit to the plant within the hour."

Across the room, Strand accepted his coffee from Dahlia and turned toward their table. Maxwell's shoulders tensed visibly.

"Maxwell," Strand greeted, approaching with confident steps. "You're looking well for a man who reportedly never leaves his riverside retreat."

"Victor." Maxwell didn't rise or offer his hand. "Still profiting from other people's creativity, I see."

Strand's practiced smile didn't falter. "Still maintaining the artistic temperament, I see. May I join you? It's been, what, fifteen years?"

"Seventeen," Maxwell corrected flatly. "At the Solstice Festival when you tried to convince me to authorize a remaster of unreleased material."

"Water under the bridge." Strand pulled out a chair without waiting for an invitation and sat. His gaze shifted to Ezra with practiced assessment. "You must be the private investigator I've heard about. Digging into local history, I understand."

"Ezra Patel." Ezra offered no additional information, watching the tension radiate between the two older men.

"Mr. Patel has been asking interesting questions about matrix variations," Maxwell said deliberately. "Specifically, about stampers that were supposedly destroyed under quality control protocols."

Strand's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Ancient industry procedures. Hardly relevant to anyone now."

"I found the production logs," Ezra said, maintaining direct eye contact with Strand. "The ones documenting Meridian's order to recall and destroy specific pressing batches after release."

"Standard practice for defective products," Strand replied smoothly. "Though I'm curious why a private investigator would find manufacturing minutiae so fascinating."

"The dead wax messages weren't manufacturing defects," Maxwell interjected. "They were deliberate communication from artists about contractual exploitation."

"They were unauthorized modifications to company property," Strand corrected, his tone hardening slightly. "The master recordings belonged to Meridian under signed contracts."

"But not the silent space between music and label," Maxwell countered. "That legal gray area was never covered in your contracts, which is why you had to destroy physical records rather than pursue legal remedies."

Dahlia appeared at their table, setting a fresh cup of coffee before Maxwell without being asked. "Special blend today," she said quietly. "Thought you might need it."

The interruption gave Ezra a moment to study Strand's reaction. The executive maintained his composed exterior, but something calculating had entered his expression—the look of someone reassessing risks and strategies.

"Interesting gathering," Strand observed after Dahlia left. "The reclusive producer, the coffee shop owner with her protective hovering, and the detective investigating ancient history. All we need is Isadora Abbott to complete the reunion."

"Why are you really here, Victor?" Maxwell asked bluntly. "The festival's tomorrow. You usually arrive just in time for the public recognition and disappear before the community aspects."

"Preparation for the thirtieth anniversary exhibition requires more groundwork than usual." Strand straightened his already-perfect tie. "Meridian's parent company is investing significantly in a comprehensive retrospective. We're gathering authentic artifacts, remastering the catalog for digital streaming⁠—"

"Repackaging tragedy for another generation of consumers," Maxwell interrupted.

Strand's professional veneer cracked slightly. "Preserving a significant musical legacy, one you've been content to let gather dust in your riverside hideaway for three decades." He turned to Ezra. "Did Maxwell tell you he owns master tapes he's refused to release? Material fans have been desperate to hear?"

"Did you tell him why I've kept those tapes secured?" Maxwell shot back. "About the death clause provisions that would give Meridian control of even Aria's solo material if it were ever discovered?"

The tension between them crackled like static electricity. Ezra remained silent, watching the interplay of long-held grievances.

"That clause only applied to band members," Strand said dismissively. "And it was standard industry practice."

"Nothing standard about claiming rights to unreleased work in perpetuity," Maxwell replied. "Nothing standard about seizing creative control upon an artist's death."

Strand checked his watch in a deliberate show of disinterest. "Ancient contract disputes hardly seem relevant now. What matters is honoring the band's legacy properly." He turned to Ezra. "Mr. Patel, whatever Maxwell and Isadora have told you about the past is heavily colored by their personal involvement. If you're genuinely interested in accurate history, my office could provide official documentation."

"I've seen enough documentation," Ezra replied evenly. "Including production logs showing deliberate suppression of artist communication."

Something hardened in Strand's eyes. "Careful, detective. Historical research is one thing. Defamation is quite another."

"Is that a threat, Victor?" Maxwell asked quietly.

"Merely a professional observation." Strand rose, straightening his jacket. "I have preparations to complete before tomorrow's festival. I look forward to seeing you both there—assuming you're planning to attend the tribute performance, Maxwell? It would be your first public acknowledgment of the band's work in decades."

After Strand left, the tension in the air remained like the lingering scent of expensive cologne.

"That man," Maxwell said through clenched teeth, "has built his entire career on controlling other people's voices."

"Why is he really here early?" Ezra asked.

"Damage control. Someone warned him about your investigation reaching the production records." Maxwell took a long sip of his coffee. "The thirtieth anniversary is significant for Meridian—major reissue campaign planned, collectible box sets, streaming rights negotiations. They can't afford questions about contract ethics or Aria's death resurfacing now."

"Will you actually attend the festival tomorrow?"

Maxwell's expression shifted toward something more vulnerable. "I haven't participated publicly since... since she died. But with Strand watching so closely, maybe it's time to break that pattern." He met Ezra's gaze directly. "Will you be there?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Ezra replied. "Especially after that interaction."

"Then I'll finish telling you what happened that day," Maxwell said quietly. "But not here. Too many ears, even friendly ones." He glanced toward Dahlia, who was wiping counters while clearly monitoring their conversation. "Tomorrow, during the festival. When everyone's distracted by celebration."

---

The Summer Solstice Festival transformed Covenridge from quiet mountain town into vibrant cultural celebration. Colorful banners stretched across Main Street, stages had been erected in the town square and park, and vendors lined pedestrian areas with food, crafts, and local products. By early afternoon, visitors from surrounding communities had filled the streets, creating a bustling atmosphere rarely seen in the isolated valley town.

Ezra made his way through the crowd, noting how the festival blended obvious pagan elements—wreaths of summer flowers, sun symbols, ritual objects at key locations—with mainstream music and art performances. The duality seemed to perfectly represent Covenridge itself: contemporary surface with older traditions pulsing just beneath.

Near the main stage, he spotted Dahlia directing volunteers who were arranging protective circles of salt around the performance area. She wore a flowing green dress embroidered with botanical designs, her auburn hair braided with flowers and ribbons.

"Festival security?" Ezra asked, approaching her.

"Protection of a sort," she replied with a knowing smile. "Some traditions predate modern crowd control." She checked something off her clipboard. "Looking for someone specific, or just absorbing the atmosphere?"

"Both. Maxwell agreed to meet me here to finish our conversation from yesterday."

"Significant," Dahlia observed. "He hasn't attended the festival in years, though we always save a place for him." She glanced around before lowering her voice. "Strand's been making the rounds all morning. Introducing himself as the 'band's representative,' schmoozing with the tribute performers."

"Speaking of which, when is the Starlight Wanderers tribute scheduled?"

"Sunset on the main stage. Prime slot." Dahlia's expression shifted toward concern. "Mrs. Abbott usually avoids that part of the festival. Finds it difficult to hear other voices performing her daughter's songs."

"But she attends other elements?"

"She leads the moonlight ceremony later tonight." Dahlia checked her watch. "Which reminds me—if you want to understand this community's relationship with its past, don't miss the remembrance ritual at Twin Pond at 10:00 pm."

As Dahlia moved away to continue her preparations, Ezra continued exploring the festival grounds. Various stages featured local musicians, storytellers, and performance artists. Food vendors offered regional specialties and craft brewers poured special Solstice blends. The celebration seemed designed to engage all senses simultaneously—a collective experience of sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch.

Near a smaller stage where a folk duo performed, Ezra spotted Mrs. Abbott engaged in conversation with several elderly residents. Unlike her usual bookstore attire, she wore a deep purple dress with a silver shawl draped across her shoulders, looking more like Isadora the music chronicler than the reserved bookseller he'd come to know.

She noticed him watching and excused herself from her companions. "Mr. Patel," she greeted him. "Experiencing your first Solstice Festival, I see."

"It's quite a transformation for a town this size," he observed.

"Covenridge understands celebration as obligation, not just recreation." Her gaze swept across the festival. "Light and darkness, joy and sorrow, remembrance and revelation—the cycle requires acknowledgment."

"I'm told you lead the moonlight ceremony."

Something softened in her expression. "Some traditions I couldn't bear to abandon, even after everything changed." She studied him with unexpected directness. "Maxwell is here, you know. First time in years. Your investigation is already altering patterns established for decades."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Remains to be seen." She adjusted her shawl. "Breaking patterns can liberate or destroy. Sometimes both simultaneously." Before Ezra could respond, she added, "He's by the river gazebo. Said he'd wait for you there."

The gazebo stood at the edge of the festival grounds where the Covenridge River curved gently past the town park. Maxwell sat alone on a bench inside the octagonal structure, watching the water flow past. He'd foregone his usual casual attire for a proper button-down shirt and clean jeans, his silver hair tied back neatly.

"You actually came," Ezra said, taking a seat beside him.

"First time since '95," Maxwell confirmed. "Feels like wearing clothes that no longer fit."

"I just saw Mrs. Abbott. She mentioned you're breaking established patterns."

"Apt observation. Isadora always did understand patterns." Maxwell's gaze remained fixed on the flowing water. "We've maintained careful distance for decades—same town, separate orbits. Being here simultaneously feels... precarious."

"Yet you risked it to finish our conversation."

Maxwell nodded slowly. "After the plant yesterday, I realized something—I've been protecting secrets that no longer deserve protection." He turned to face Ezra directly. "The day Aria disappeared wasn't a spontaneous tragedy. It was the culmination of calculated business decisions."

"You mentioned being deliberately incapacitated," Ezra prompted.

"Strand arrived with three lawyers and two 'security consultants,'" Maxwell began, his voice taking on the distant quality of painful recollection. "They brought contracts, threatening letters, and financial projections. Standard intimidation. But they also brought coffee and pastries—seemingly harmless hospitality."

"They drugged you."

"Something in the coffee. Started feeling disoriented about twenty minutes in." Maxwell's hands tightened on his knees. "I'd had one drink before they arrived—my usual pre-meeting courage—but this was different. Couldn't focus, room spinning, gaps in my memory."

"Was Aria there?"

"Arrived midway through. She'd prepared a formal statement about leaving the band, had copies of her solo contract with the Seattle studio." His voice caught slightly. "She was magnificent—poised, articulate, legally prepared. Everything I failed to be in that moment."

"How did Strand respond?"

"At first, with reasonable-sounding counteroffers. When those didn't work, with veiled threats about her future employability." Maxwell's eyes darkened with memory. "Then one of his security men mentioned how unfortunate it would be if Isadora's bookstore faced tax audit problems or if my riverside property had unexpected environmental compliance issues."

"They threatened you both to control her."

"Exactly. And by then, I was barely conscious, useless as either father or ally." The self-loathing in Maxwell's voice was palpable. "I remember Aria's face—not frightened, but disgusted. She told them they'd just proven every point in her prepared statement about exploitation and abuse of power."

"Then what happened?"

"She left. Told them their tactics were being recorded as evidence. That's when one of the security men followed her out while Strand stayed with me." Maxwell's voice dropped to near whisper. "I tried to get up, to follow her, but couldn't coordinate my movements. Last clear memory is Strand saying everything would be 'properly handled' and that I should focus on resting."

"You think the security man followed her to Singer's Fall?"

"I don't know." Maxwell's admission seemed to physically pain him. "I woke hours later to Strand telling me she'd jumped, that I'd followed her too late to save her. That we needed to present a unified narrative to protect the band's legacy."

"And you went along with it."

"I was still disoriented, filled with guilt about failing her again." Maxwell looked away, back toward the river. "By the time I began questioning the story, the official record was established. My statement given and documented. Changing it would mean admitting I'd lied to authorities."

The sounds of the festival—music, laughter, announcements—created surreal counterpoint to this somber revelation. In the distance, a cheer went up as some performance reached its climax.

"Why tell me now?" Ezra asked. "After thirty years of silence?"

"Because you found the production records. The matrix stampers. The demo tapes. You're assembling evidence that could finally balance the scales." Maxwell turned back to him, unexpected hope visible in his eyes. "And because yesterday at the plant, I realized Strand is still actively suppressing this history. Still sending security teams to monitor sites that might contain evidence. Which means he still fears the truth emerging."

Their conversation was interrupted by the festival's public address system announcing the Starlight Wanderers tribute performance would begin in thirty minutes on the main stage.

"Will you watch the tribute band?" Ezra asked.

Maxwell stared toward the distant main stage. "I don't know if I can bear hearing her songs performed by others. But avoiding them hasn't brought peace either." He stood with sudden resolution. "Come on. There's something you should see before the performance."

He led Ezra away from the festival's main area, following a path that curved through woods toward a small clearing overlooking the town. There, a stone circle surrounded a central fire pit, currently unlit but prepared with wood for evening ceremonies.

"This is where the moonlight ritual happens later," Maxwell explained. "Where Isadora leads the community in remembrance."

"Mrs. Abbott mentioned you two have maintained careful distance for decades," Ezra observed. "Yet you both attend different aspects of the same festival."

"Covenridge isn't large enough for complete avoidance, just careful scheduling." Maxwell touched one of the stones, his finger tracing symbols carved into its surface. "For years, I'd come to the festival after dark, when most visitors had left. Light a candle here for Aria, then disappear before anyone noticed."

"And Mrs. Abbott?"

"Comes at designated times, performs the official ceremonies. We coordinated through Dahlia to ensure we never overlapped." He looked toward the festival below, where crowds were gathering at the main stage. "Until today."

As they made their way back toward the festival, Maxwell fell silent, his expression growing more troubled with each step toward the main stage area. When they reached the gathering crowd, he hesitated visibly.

"You don't have to do this," Ezra said quietly.

"Yes, I do." Maxwell squared his shoulders. "I've been hiding from her voice for too long."

They found space near the back of the crowd as the tribute band took the stage to enthusiastic applause. Five musicians in their thirties, clearly serious about their craft, arranged themselves before vintage-style microphones. Their female vocalist, dressed in flowing clothes reminiscent of Aria's stage attire, stepped forward.

"We are Wandering Stars," she announced, "and we're honored to perform the music of The Starlight Wanderers in their hometown of Covenridge."

As they launched into the opening notes of "River's Memory," Maxwell's body went rigid beside Ezra. The vocalist's voice, while beautiful in its own right, carried clear influence from Aria's recordings—the same phrasing, similar tonal qualities, though lacking the otherworldly presence Ezra had heard in the demo tapes.

Through the crowd, Ezra spotted Victor Strand standing near the sound booth, watching the performance with satisfied expression. The executive's gaze swept across the audience until it landed on Maxwell. A slight smile played across Strand's face—recognition and something like triumph.

But Ezra's attention was drawn elsewhere—to the unexpected sight of Mrs. Abbott standing at the far edge of the gathering, partially hidden behind a festival banner. Her face held complex emotion as she listened to another woman perform her daughter's songs. For the first time since Ezra had met her, she looked her full age, the careful composure temporarily abandoned.

As if sensing observation, Mrs. Abbott's eyes moved until they met Ezra's across the crowd. Then, inevitably, her gaze shifted to Maxwell standing beside him. For a long moment, the two of them looked at each other across the expanse—not just physical distance but decades of carefully maintained separation.

Maxwell raised his hand in a small, uncertain gesture of acknowledgment. After a heartbeat of hesitation, Mrs. Abbott returned the gesture, a fragile connection momentarily bridging the chasm between them.

In that moment, as the music swelled and the tribute vocalist sang about rivers carrying truth from source to sea, Ezra suddenly understood the pattern in the dead wax messages—not just contract warnings or legal protests, but lines of a poem when properly arranged. A communication designed to flow like water through different pressings, parts separated yet forming a complete work when properly assembled.

The melody, the gesture between estranged parents, the convergence of past and present—everything aligned into momentary clarity like sunlight breaking through clouds. The festival's celebration of revelation had provided precisely that.

As the song ended and applause erupted around them, Ezra knew with certainty that the bonfire ritual later that night would complete this circuit of understanding. The community's collective remembrance through flame would illuminate the final truth about what happened at Singer's Fall thirty years ago.

And he would be there to witness it, regardless of the professional or personal consequences that might follow.

Twilight deepened across Covenridge as Ezra left the vibrant chaos of the Summer Solstice Festival behind. The tribute band's final notes still echoed in his mind as he drove toward Singer's Fall, his headlights cutting through gathering darkness. That brief moment of connection between Maxwell and Mrs. Abbott had crystallized something in his understanding—not just about their shared history, but about the fractured narrative surrounding Aria's death.

According to weather archives he'd consulted, the day Aria disappeared had featured similar conditions to tonight: warm summer air meeting cooler river temperatures, creating shifting mist above the water as evening approached. A half-moon, rising in a partly cloudy sky. Even the barometric pressure matched within two points—potentially creating one of Covenridge's famous "audio days" when sound carried in unusual ways.

Ezra parked at the small turnout near the hiking path, checking his watch: 8:15 pm. The bonfire ritual wouldn't begin until 10:00 pm, giving him time to examine Singer's Fall once more, this time under environmentally authentic conditions. He grabbed his flashlight and recording device before setting off down the trail.

The river's voice grew steadily louder as he approached—not the gentle murmur of the stretch flowing through town, but the forceful declaration of water compelled through narrowing channels. Singer's Fall wasn't a sheer drop but a series of violent, churning rapids where the Covenridge River squeezed between rock walls before plunging eight feet into a circular pool.

When he reached the overlook above the falls, Ezra paused to activate his recorder. "Site visit, Singer's Fall, conditions matching original incident. 8:23 pm." He swept his flashlight across the area, noting how the beam caught suspended mist, creating momentary rainbows in the dying light.

Carefully, he made his way down the slick path toward the flat rock ledge that offered the best view of the falls. This was supposedly where Aria had jumped—and where Maxwell had initially claimed to witness her suicide.

"The physical configuration makes the official story implausible," Ezra spoke into his recorder. "Distance from ledge to water is approximately fifteen feet horizontally, with an eight-foot vertical drop. Not impossible to jump, but requires deliberate intention, not an impulsive act."

He directed his flashlight toward the swirling pool below, where water churned in a counterclockwise pattern before continuing downstream. "The hydraulic features create a recirculating current. Any object—or person—entering the water would likely be trapped in this rotation rather than carried downstream as the official report claimed."

The rushing water created a constant roar, punctuated by shifting patterns as currents collided with rocks. Ezra tilted his head, listening more carefully. Within the chaotic sound, certain tones emerged—almost musical in their resonance, shifting from low rumbles to higher pitches that eerily resembled vowel sounds.

"The acoustics are remarkable," he noted. "The water creates sounds that could be interpreted as human vocalization—explaining local legends about hearing Aria's voice. It's a natural phenomenon, but genuinely unsettling."

Moving carefully along the ledge, Ezra reached the spot where Maxwell had claimed to be standing when he witnessed Aria jump. He crouched, testing sightlines and acoustic properties.

"From this position, the fall's noise completely overwhelms other sounds. If Maxwell had been standing here, he couldn't possibly have heard a splash or cry from the jumping point thirty feet away. The water's too loud."

The mist growing thicker as warm air continued meeting the cool river, creating ghostly shapes that shifted in his flashlight beam. Despite his rational approach, Ezra felt the primitive part of his brain responding to the environment—the combination of limited visibility, dangerous terrain, and water sounds triggering instinctive caution.

"If Aria came here that day," he continued, "she would have encountered similar conditions. Challenging visibility, slippery surfaces, disorienting acoustics. Not an environment for casual navigation."

As he moved to examine the tributary path that connected to Maxwell's property, a voice cut through the water's roar.

"She didn't jump."

Ezra spun around, nearly losing his footing on the wet stone. Maxwell stood ten feet away, his silhouette dark against the misty background. He wore the same clothes from the festival, though his silver hair now hung loose around his shoulders.

"How long have you been there?" Ezra asked, recovering his composure.

"Long enough to hear your observations." Maxwell stepped closer, moving with surprising confidence across the treacherous surface. "You're right about the acoustics. No way I could have heard anything from where I claimed to be standing."

Ezra gestured toward a relatively dry section of rock. "You followed me from the festival?"

"No. Came directly from my cottage. I know a shortcut." Maxwell settled onto the indicated spot, his eyes fixed on the churning water below. "Knew you'd come here eventually. The timeline was completing itself."

"What timeline?"

"Thirty years ago today. Summer Solstice Festival, 1990. The last time Aria performed publicly." Maxwell's voice barely carried above the water's roar. "Four months later, she disappeared here. At least, that's the official story."

Ezra sat nearby, making sure his recorder continued capturing their conversation. "You said she didn't jump. What really happened?"

Maxwell remained silent for a long moment, the falling water providing continuous accompaniment to their conversation. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a different quality—less guarded, more raw.

"The day everything happened—October 16th—I was supposed to meet with Strand and his lawyers at my cottage. Standard contractual intimidation. I'd been drinking since morning, trying to find courage."

"You mentioned they drugged your coffee," Ezra prompted.

"Yes. But I was already compromised from my own choices." Maxwell's hands moved restlessly in his lap. "Aria arrived during the meeting. She had documentation about their contract violations, recordings of earlier verbal promises, a formal statement declaring her independence."

"And the Seattle studio contract."

Maxwell nodded. "She was prepared. Professional. Everything I failed to be." He turned to face Ezra directly. "What I didn't tell you at the festival was what happened after she left my cottage. The part I've never told anyone, not even Isadora."

The water's roar seemed to diminish, as if the river itself were listening.

"I was fading in and out of consciousness, but I heard Strand tell his security man to 'make sure she understands the consequences.' The man left immediately after Aria." Maxwell's voice tightened. "I tried to follow, couldn't coordinate my movements. Passed out completely."

"When did you regain consciousness?"

"Hours later. Maybe 6:00 pm. Found myself alone in the cottage. No Strand, no lawyers, no Aria." Maxwell's eyes returned to the churning pool below. "Disoriented, still partially drugged, I stumbled outside. That's when I heard the shouting."

"From where?"

"Downstream. This direction." He gestured toward Singer's Fall. "Male voice, angry. Then Aria's voice, defiant. Then silence."

Ezra leaned forward. "You heard an altercation before Aria allegedly jumped?"

"I followed the sound, moving as quickly as my condition allowed. By the time I reached the river path, I heard a splash." Maxwell's voice broke slightly. "I called for Aria. No answer. Kept moving toward Singer's Fall, found no one."

"What did you do next?"

"Searched along the banks, calling her name. Couldn't see well in the dusk light. Eventually collapsed from exhaustion and whatever drugs were still in my system." Maxwell's hands clenched into fists. "When I woke again, Strand was there with the sheriff. Told me they'd found evidence Aria had jumped. That given my condition, my statement about witnessing it would be the kindest way to close the case."

"And you agreed."

"I was still disoriented, consumed with guilt for failing her again." Maxwell looked away. "By the time I fully understood what I'd done, the official story was established. My statement given and documented. Changing it would mean admitting I'd lied to authorities."

"So you've spent thirty years maintaining a false narrative about your daughter's death," Ezra said, not a question but a confirmation.

"Yes." The single word seemed to cost Maxwell physically. "I told myself it was kindness to Isadora. That questioning the suicide would only prolong her pain. The truth is, I was protecting myself."

Ezra rose, walking carefully to the edge where the water plunged into the pool below. "Based on what you've just told me, combined with physical evidence, Aria likely never jumped at all."

"What do you mean?"

"The splash you heard could have been anything—or anyone—entering the water. Not necessarily Aria." Ezra turned back to Maxwell. "And if Strand's security man followed her from your cottage, confronted her somewhere along the river path..."

"You think she was pushed?" Maxwell's face drained of color. "Murdered?"

"I think it's more plausible than suicide, given everything we now know." Ezra gestured toward the dangerous currents. "Especially considering that a body entering this water would likely remain in the recirculation pattern, not be carried downstream as reported."

"Then where is she? Where's her body?" Maxwell's voice cracked with decades of suppressed grief.

Before Ezra could respond, the water's roar shifted, creating a sound so eerily similar to a woman's voice that both men froze. The acoustics of Singer's Fall, combined with the evening's atmospheric conditions, had produced what genuinely sounded like someone singing a sustained note.

"That," Ezra said quietly after the sound faded, "is why locals believe they hear Aria's ghost. The water creates vocal tones under certain conditions."

Maxwell nodded, visibly shaken. "I've heard it before. It's why I've avoided this place for years." He stood with visible effort. "But you haven't answered my question. If she was... if something happened to her here, where is she now?"

"That's what doesn't fit." Ezra gestured toward the pool. "A body in these hydraulics would eventually surface or remain visible. Search teams would have found her." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "Unless she never entered the water at all."

"What are you suggesting?"

"You heard an altercation and a splash. But what if the splash wasn't Aria? What if it was Strand's security man?" Ezra watched comprehension dawn on Maxwell's face. "Or what if there was a confrontation that ended differently than either suicide or murder?"

"The campsite," Maxwell whispered. "Isadora found a campsite near here days later. Hidden spot Aria used sometimes. Said it looked recently used."

"She showed me the photograph," Ezra confirmed. "By the time she returned the next day, everything had been removed. The area appeared untouched."

The implications hung between them, given weight by the river's continuous commentary.

"Are you saying she might have escaped?" Maxwell's voice contained a fragile hope he seemed afraid to embrace. "That she could still be alive somewhere?"

"I'm saying the physical evidence never supported suicide, and now your testimony contradicts it further." Ezra chose his words carefully. "What if the security man confronted her, a struggle ensued, and he fell into the water instead? What if Aria, realizing the danger she faced, used that opportunity to disappear?"

Maxwell stared at the churning water, its surface catching moonlight in chaotic patterns. "She was planning to leave for Seattle anyway. Had resources ready."

"And with everyone believing she was dead, no one would look for her," Ezra added. "The death provisions in the contract would activate, but she'd be beyond their reach."

"It's too much to hope for," Maxwell said, though his expression had transformed. "After thirty years..."

"Hope isn't my business," Ezra replied. "Evidence is. And the evidence increasingly suggests the official narrative is false."

A new sound interrupted their conversation—distant drums from the direction of town. The bonfire ritual was beginning.

"The ceremony," Maxwell said, checking his watch. "Isadora will be leading it soon."

"Will you attend?" Ezra asked.

Maxwell hesitated, conflict visible on his face. "Not directly. But I'll be nearby." He gestured toward the path leading back to town. "We should leave this place. It's dangerous in the dark, and we've disturbed enough ghosts for one night."

As they carefully made their way from Singer's Fall, the water's voice followed them—rushing, falling, continuous in its commentary. Ezra glanced back once to see mist rising from the pool in ethereal columns, moonlight transforming it into ghostly dancers performing for no audience.

"After the tribute performance," Ezra said as they reached more stable ground, "I saw something I don't think you noticed."

"What's that?"

"Mrs. Abbott was watching from the edge of the crowd. She saw you. You acknowledged each other."

Maxwell stopped walking. "Isadora was there? I didn't realize..." His voice trailed off. "Thirty years of careful avoidance, broken in a single moment."

"Perhaps it's time," Ezra suggested. "You both deserve truth, whatever it reveals."

"Truth is rarely kind," Maxwell replied, resuming his pace. "But its absence has been crueler."

They parted at the trailhead, Maxwell heading toward a less traveled path that would allow him to observe the bonfire ritual without participating directly. Ezra returned to his car, recording a final observation before turning toward town.

"Singer's Fall investigation, supplemental note: Physical evidence combined with Maxwell's revised testimony strongly contradicts suicide narrative. Alternative scenarios include: confrontation with Strand's security personnel resulting in accidental death or injury; staged disappearance utilizing mistaken identity or deliberate misdirection; or..." he paused, aware of how unlikely his final theory might seem, "intentional disappearance using presumed death as cover. Further investigation required."

As Ezra drove toward the bonfire ceremony, the drumming grew steadily louder, calling the community to collective remembrance. The river's lessons followed him—how water shapes landscapes over time, how currents reveal what was previously hidden, how falling isn't always an ending.

The moonlight ritual awaited, where fire would provide illumination of a different kind. And perhaps, after thirty years of carefully maintained separation, two people who had loved and lost the same extraordinary voice might finally find their way back to a shared truth.

The bonfire's embers still glowed in the town square as Ezra made his way toward Resonant Pages. The Summer Solstice Festival had gradually wound down after the midnight ceremony, revelers dispersing into the warm night, leaving behind only the most dedicated celebrants. The moon hung high above Covenridge, casting silver light across streets that still bore the festival's colorful detritus—discarded flower crowns, trampled program flyers, and the occasional forgotten personal belonging.

Mrs. Abbott's bookstore stood dark except for a single light visible in the rear window—the reading room where Ezra had temporarily established his office. Despite the late hour (nearly 1:30 am), he wasn't surprised to find her still awake. The ritual she'd conducted had been powerful in its solemnity, her voice guiding the community through remembrance practices that clearly predated modern celebrations. Something in her demeanor throughout had suggested a woman preparing for confrontation rather than merely performing tradition.

Ezra knocked softly on the back door. Within moments, it opened to reveal Mrs. Abbott still wearing her ceremonial attire—the deep purple dress and silver shawl now complemented by a complex necklace of river stones and metal that had featured prominently in the ritual.

"I've been expecting you," she said simply, stepping aside to let him enter.

The reading room had been transformed. Books lay in careful stacks across every surface, organized in patterns that made no immediate sense to Ezra's eye. The shelves they'd normally occupy stood partially empty, creating gaps in the usually seamless collection.

"You're reorganizing," he observed.

"Recategorizing," she corrected, closing the door behind him. "Some patterns outlive their usefulness." She gestured toward a chair. "You have questions following Singer's Fall and the bonfire."

"You knew I'd gone there."

"Maxwell texted me." A small smile flickered across her face at Ezra's surprise. "Yes, we occasionally communicate through modern means, despite appearances. Especially when old patterns begin shifting."

Ezra settled into the indicated chair, noting how the bookstore's usual lavender scent now mingled with woodsmoke from the ritual fire. "He told you what we discussed?"

"Only that you'd spoken at the falls. That certain truths had emerged." Mrs. Abbott—Isadora—remained standing, her posture maintaining the formal dignity she'd displayed during the ceremony. "I assume you've come to hear my confirmation or denial."

"I've come to share what I've learned," Ezra replied, "and to ask for what you know that I don't."

She nodded once, sharply. "Direct. Appropriate under the circumstances." She moved to a nearby shelf and extracted a leather-bound volume. "Do you know what tonight's ritual represents in Covenridge tradition?"

"Remembrance," Ezra ventured. "Honoring the past year's events."

"Partial understanding." She opened the book, revealing handwritten pages rather than printed text. "It marks the moment when hidden things are acknowledged publicly. When patterns broken can be recognized rather than denied." She looked up at him directly. "The fire transforms private truth into community knowledge."

"Is that why you finally acknowledged Maxwell at the festival today?"

Her hands stilled on the book's pages. "You saw that."

"I did. After thirty years of careful avoidance, you exchanged glances across the crowd during the tribute performance."

"Patterns breaking," she murmured, almost to herself. "What exactly did Maxwell tell you at Singer's Fall?"

Ezra leaned forward. "That he never witnessed Aria's suicide. That he was drugged during the meeting with Strand. That he heard a confrontation and a splash, but never actually saw what happened."

Mrs. Abbott closed her eyes briefly. "After thirty years of silence."

"He admitted maintaining a false narrative to protect himself."

"And what do you believe happened based on this new testimony?"

Ezra chose his words carefully. "I believe Aria never jumped. Physical evidence at Singer's Fall contradicts the suicide narrative. The recirculating pool would have trapped a body rather than carrying it downstream as reported." He paused, watching her reaction. "I believe either there was a confrontation that ended with someone else entering the water, or..."

"Or?" she prompted when he hesitated.

"Or Aria deliberately disappeared, using the assumption of her death as cover."

Mrs. Abbott placed the book on a nearby table and finally sat across from him. In the lamplight, her face showed the full weight of thirty years of carefully maintained composure.

"You've assembled most pieces correctly," she said quietly. "Now I'll confirm what you already suspect. Yes, Maxwell is Aria's father. Yes, he refused to publicly acknowledge paternity despite everyone seeing the obvious resemblance. And yes, I've been protecting him despite his failures because his suffering has been punishment enough."

"Protecting him from what exactly?"

"From the legal consequences of filing a false report. From the public humiliation of admitting his cowardice. From Strand's potential retaliation." Her hands twisted together in her lap. "And from himself, in his darkest moments. Maxwell's guilt nearly destroyed him in the years following Aria's disappearance."

"You say 'disappearance' rather than 'death,'" Ezra noted.

A complex emotion flickered across her face. "Choice of words becomes habit over decades."

"Mrs. Abbott—Isadora," Ezra corrected himself, "the demo tapes showed Aria had concrete plans to leave. The physical evidence at Singer's Fall contradicts suicide. You found a recently used campsite nearby that was later cleaned up. All suggesting⁠—"

"That my daughter might have engineered her own disappearance?" she interrupted. "That she might still be alive somewhere, having built a different life under a different name?" She shook her head. "I've traveled that road of hope too many times, Mr. Patel. It leads nowhere solid."

"But you've considered the possibility."

"Every mother of a missing child considers every possibility." Her voice remained steady despite the emotion behind her words. "For years, I searched. Followed leads. Hired investigators far less competent than yourself." She gestured toward the bookshelves surrounding them. "This entire organizational system began as a way to process grief while maintaining hope—each section corresponding to different theories about what happened to her."

"And now you're reorganizing it," Ezra observed. "Why?"

"Because patterns that once helped me survive have become constraints." She rose suddenly and moved to one of the half-empty shelves. "This section contained books arranged according to the suicide theory—works about despair, artistic temperament, river mythology. I maintained it even when I doubted its truth because it provided structure."

She began removing more books from another shelf. "This section represented the murder theory—true crime, corporate corruption, power dynamics in the music industry. Equally rigid in its organization despite its different conclusion."

"And the third theory? Disappearance?"

"The section by the window. Books about reinvention, escape, identity transformation." She turned back to him. "Three competing narratives, each with their own evidence, their own emotional landscape. I've lived inside all of them at different times."

"Which do you believe now?"

Mrs. Abbott returned to her seat, her movements deliberate. "I believe it's time to arrange these books according to a single truth rather than competing theories. Which is why I need to share something I've never shown any investigator before."

She rose again and moved toward the hidden staircase that led to her private archives. "Follow me."

Upstairs in the climate-controlled room Ezra had seen during the storm, Mrs. Abbott unlocked a cabinet he hadn't noticed during his previous visit. From inside, she retrieved a small wooden box secured with a combination lock.

"The journals I showed you previously were selected," she explained, her fingers working the lock. "Edited to exclude entries that might lead to dangerous speculation or false hope." The lock clicked open. "These are the complete journals from Aria's final month."

Inside lay three leather-bound notebooks, their pages clearly well-handled despite careful preservation. Mrs. Abbott selected the last one, opening to a page marked with a purple ribbon.

"October 15th, 1990," she read aloud. "The day before Aria disappeared."

She handed Ezra the journal, her finger indicating where to begin reading. Aria's handwriting flowed across the page in purple ink:

"Meeting with Strand tomorrow at M's cottage. He's bringing lawyers to intimidate us with contract language, but I'm ready. Seattle arrangements confirmed. The safe house at Singer's River is stocked. If everything goes according to plan, this will be my last entry as Aria of The Starlight Wanderers.

Mom understands the necessity but not the method—she believes legal challenges would be sufficient. She doesn't fully grasp how these men operate when millions are at stake. The dead wax messages were only the beginning. My voice will find its true form once I'm free of their constraints."

Ezra looked up from the page. "She had an exit strategy. A safe house."

"The campsite I found," Mrs. Abbott confirmed. "Temporary shelter between leaving Maxwell's cottage and departing for Seattle." She reclaimed the journal, turning several pages forward. "But then there's this. The final entry."

Ezra accepted the journal again. The last entry, dated simply "October 16" without a time, contained only one line:

"If pattern breaks, so might I. Water remembers what witnesses forget."

"Cryptic," he said, returning the journal.

"Deliberately so, I believe. Insurance against the journal being found by the wrong people." Mrs. Abbott carefully returned the notebooks to their box. "There are no more entries. No confirmation of what actually happened."

"You've maintained the possibility that she's alive all these years," Ezra said, understanding dawning. "But never found proof."

"Absence of proof isn't proof of absence," she replied. "But thirty years of silence suggests either a complete break with her former life or..." She didn't finish the sentence.

"What about the dead wax messages?" Ezra asked. "I found production records at the plant showing deliberate creation of different versions with fragmented messages. What was their actual purpose?"

Mrs. Abbott's expression softened with something like pride. "They were Aria's creation. Her idea of embedding messages in the margins where corporate contracts couldn't reach. The silent space between music and label—poetic in both concept and execution."

"But why fragment them across different pressings?"

"Partly practical necessity—limited space in the dead wax. But mostly strategic distribution." Her hands moved expressively, echoing Maxwell's technical gestures. "She understood information security concepts through Maxwell's earlier work. The complete message could never be suppressed if parts existed in different places."

"And the complete message forms lines of a poem when properly assembled," Ezra said, remembering his realization during the festival.

"Yes. A poem about visibility and recognition. About existing in margins while still being heard." Something shifted in Mrs. Abbott's expression—a subtle pride breaking through grief. "Even in potential death, she created art that transcended conventional boundaries."

A noise from downstairs interrupted their conversation—the sound of breaking glass. Mrs. Abbott rose immediately, moving toward the door.

"Stay here," Ezra said quietly, already reaching for his phone.

"No need for heroics," she replied calmly. "This has happened before."

They descended the stairs together to find the bookstore's front window shattered, glass fragments glittering across the floor. A brick lay among the shards, wrapped in paper secured by a rubber band.

Mrs. Abbott picked it up with practiced caution, removing the note. "As I expected," she said, handing it to Ezra.

The message, composed of letters cut from magazines in classic threatening style, read: "STOP DIGGING OR THE NEXT BREAK WON'T BE GLASS."

"You said this has happened before?" Ezra asked, photographing the note before handling it.

"Three times over the years. Always when someone starts asking serious questions about Aria's death." She moved to a supply closet and retrieved a broom. "The first time was when a music journalist started investigating contract irregularities in '95. Then again when a documentary filmmaker interviewed Maxwell in 2003. And now you."

Ezra held up the note. "This is criminal intimidation. We should call Sheriff Benson."

"To what end? The culprits are never identified. The investigation goes nowhere." She began methodically sweeping glass, her movements suggesting long practice. "Covenridge protects certain mysteries through inaction as much as action."

Ezra pulled out his phone and photographed the broken window and scattered glass. "This isn't just about your bookstore. My apartment was broken into as well."

Mrs. Abbott's broom paused mid-sweep. "When?"

"While I was at Singer's Fall with Maxwell. I noticed it when I returned to change before the bonfire ritual. Nothing valuable taken, but my investigation notes were clearly searched through."

"And you didn't mention this earlier because?"

"I wanted to hear what you knew first, without the distraction."

Mrs. Abbott resumed sweeping. "Patterns reasserting themselves. The threat followed by the professional dismissal. The warning ignored until property damage escalates." She gathered glass into a neat pile. "What makes your investigation different is that you have no professional stake in publication or exposure. No book contract or documentary to complete."

"Just the truth," Ezra agreed.

"Which makes you more dangerous to whoever wants this buried." She emptied the dustpan into a trash bag. "Strand's legal team has maintained the official narrative for three decades. The suicide story serves multiple purposes—it activated the death clauses in the contract, preserved Meridian's control of the catalog, and created marketable tragic mystique around the music."

"If Aria didn't die—if she engineered her own disappearance—those rights would be legally questionable," Ezra realized.

"More than questionable. Potentially fraudulent." Mrs. Abbott set aside the broom and faced him directly. "Which is why I need to know your intentions, Mr. Patel. What do you plan to do with what you've learned?"

Ezra considered his answer carefully. "Complete the investigation. Document the evidence contradicting the suicide narrative. Determine whether there's sufficient proof to challenge the legal status quo."

"And if that evidence suggests my daughter is still alive? Would you pursue her?"

The question hung between them, loaded with implications beyond professional ethics.

"That would depend on her wishes," Ezra replied finally. "If she chose disappearance over death, she had reasons worth respecting."

Mrs. Abbott studied him for a long moment before nodding once. "A satisfactory answer." She moved toward the reading room. "There's something else you should see."

Back among the reorganized bookshelves, she retrieved a slender volume from her desk drawer. "This arrived three years ago. A limited edition poetry collection published by a small press in New Mexico." She handed it to Ezra. "Author listed simply as 'A.'"

The book, titled "River Crossings," featured abstract cover art suggesting water flowing across stone. Ezra opened it to a random page and read:

"Dead wax speaks when needles trace The grooves where silence holds its place Between the music and the name Truth lives in margins just the same."

He looked up, breath catching. "These are fragments from the dead wax messages."

"Rearranged into complete poems. Thirty of them." Mrs. Abbott's voice remained steady despite the emotion behind her words. "I've had three literary analysts compare the writing style to Aria's known lyrics and journals. All confirmed the linguistic patterns match."

"You think she sent this to you."

"I think someone who writes exactly like my daughter, who knows details of messages hidden in vinyl thirty years ago, published this collection and arranged for me to receive it."

"Have you tried to trace the publisher?"

"Small cooperative press. No information on individual contributors." She reclaimed the book, holding it with obvious care. "I've respected the implicit boundary. If she's alive, she has chosen distance for reasons I may never fully understand."

"But you've reorganized your bookshelves now," Ezra observed. "Breaking the patterns you maintained for decades."

"Yes." She glanced around at the stacks of books awaiting new arrangements. "After seeing Maxwell at the festival today. After knowing you'd uncovered most of the truth already." Her fingers traced the book's spine. "Some patterns protect us until they begin to imprison us instead."

Ezra watched as she moved to an empty shelf and began placing books in a new configuration—no longer separated by competing theories but integrated into a single narrative.

"I'll need copies of Aria's complete journals," he said. "And permission to consult with a forensic accountant about Meridian's handling of the catalog rights."

"You'll have them," she agreed. "But first, there's one last piece of evidence you should consider." She selected a book from a stack and handed it to him. "This was among Aria's possessions in the weeks before she disappeared. A guide to legally changing one's identity."

Ezra opened the volume, noting highlighted passages about documentation requirements and privacy protections.

"She was methodical in her planning," Mrs. Abbott continued. "Had created a secondary identification, established financial resources beyond Meridian's reach." Pride colored her voice. "My daughter understood that some battles cannot be won through direct confrontation."

"A strategic retreat rather than surrender," Ezra suggested.

"Precisely." Mrs. Abbott—Isadora—smiled fully for the first time. "Now, it's nearly 3:00 am. I have a window to repair in the morning, and you have evidence to organize. Take the journals when you leave. I trust you'll handle them appropriately."

As Ezra gathered the materials, he watched her continue rearranging books—physically manifesting the internal reorganization of grief, hope, and possibility that had sustained her for thirty years. The patterns were breaking, but not shattering. Transforming into something new that could accommodate both loss and potential recovery.

Outside, the festival's remnants still littered the streets, awaiting morning cleanup. But unlike the chaotic debris, Mrs. Abbott's bookstore was undergoing deliberate recategorization—a space where competing narratives were finally being acknowledged as fragments of a single, complex truth.

Morning light filtered through the hastily repaired bookstore window, the plywood covering casting strange shadows across the floor. Ezra sat at his temporary desk in Mrs. Abbott's reading room, Aria's journals spread before him in chronological order. Four hours of sleep had done little to refresh him after the events of the Summer Solstice Festival, but the urgency of his investigation overrode fatigue.

His phone vibrated. Sonny's number.

"Have you read the journals?" Sonny asked without preamble when Ezra answered.

"Working through them now," Ezra replied, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing Mrs. Abbott, who was dealing with her insurance company in the front of the store.

"Meet me at The Turntable in an hour. I have something you need to see." Sonny paused. "Bring what you know about Isadora's theories."

The line went dead before Ezra could respond. He stared at the phone, considering the implied trade—information about Mrs. Abbott's private beliefs in exchange for whatever Sonny was offering. The ethical implications made him uncomfortable, yet the investigation had reached a point where full disclosure seemed inevitable.

When Ezra entered The Turntable forty-five minutes later, the store was empty except for Cecil behind the counter and Sonny in the listening booth, hunched over a turntable with specialized cleaning equipment.

"Morning," Cecil called. "Your friend's been waiting. Not exactly improving the atmosphere with his sunny disposition."

"Thanks for letting him use the equipment," Ezra replied.

Cecil lowered his voice. "He's got something special. Said you'd want to hear it without an audience." He gestured to the CLOSED sign already hanging in the window despite the store's scheduled opening time. "Take your time. I'll be in the back cataloging new arrivals."

In the listening booth, Sonny didn't look up from his meticulous cleaning of a vinyl record. His silver ponytail was pulled back more severely than usual, and dark circles under his eyes suggested he'd slept even less than Ezra.

"You got my message," Sonny said, still focused on the record.

"What are you cleaning?"

Sonny finally looked up. "The only complete pressing with the full message. No fragments, no strategic omissions—everything Aria wanted people to know." He returned to his work, using a specialized fluid on a small section of the vinyl. "It's degraded from improper storage. Need to clean it carefully before playback."

"Where did you get it?" Ezra asked, settling into the chair opposite.

"Had it all along." Sonny's mouth twisted. "Keep it in a climate-controlled vault in Portland, between jobs. Only retrieve it when someone worth sharing it with comes along."

"Why now?"

"Because the window that opened thirty years ago is closing again." Sonny inspected the record under strong light. "People are dying, evidence disappearing, memories fading. Next anniversary might be too late."

Ezra watched Sonny's hands move with practiced precision across the vinyl's surface. "The brick through Mrs. Abbott's window last night suggests someone's actively trying to maintain the established narrative."

"Not surprising. Meridian's thirtieth anniversary campaign launches next month. They've invested millions in remastering, repackaging, special editions." Sonny set down his cleaning tools. "Strand wouldn't want uncomfortable questions about contract ethics or Aria's death disrupting the marketing cycle."

"The threatening note matched others Mrs. Abbott has received whenever someone investigates too deeply."

"Pattern re-establishing itself." Sonny nodded grimly. "So what did Isadora show you after the festival? I know you two talked."

Ezra considered his response carefully. "She shared Aria's complete journals. And a poetry book published three years ago that she believes Aria might have written."

Sonny's head snapped up. "She showed you 'River Crossings'? The collection by 'A'?"

"You know about it?"

"Of course I know about it." Sonny's voice held unexpected emotion. "I helped arrange for its delivery to Isadora."

Ezra leaned forward. "You know who wrote it?"

"I know it came from Santa Fe through three intermediaries before reaching me." Sonny's expression remained carefully neutral. "What matters is whether it gave Isadora hope or just reopened wounds."

"Both, I think," Ezra replied. "She's reorganizing her entire bookstore—breaking patterns she's maintained for decades."

Something like satisfaction crossed Sonny's face. "Good. Those patterns were holding her prisoner as much as protecting her." He returned his attention to the record. "What else did she share?"

"Evidence suggesting Aria planned her disappearance rather than committing suicide. A safe house near Singer's Fall, alternate identification prepared, financial resources beyond Meridian's reach."

"And?"

"And the possibility that Aria might have engineered her own disappearance after a confrontation with Strand's security personnel."

Sonny's hands stilled on the vinyl. "She actually suggested that to you directly?"

"Not in those exact words," Ezra admitted. "But she's maintained the possibility while lacking definitive proof."

"Interesting." Sonny returned to his cleaning with renewed focus. "So you've seen most of the personal truth. Time you heard the public warning."

He carefully placed the now-cleaned record on the turntable, handling it with white cotton gloves. "This pressing never entered commercial distribution. One of ten test copies created before production adjustments. Maxwell kept the metal stamper in his safe, but I managed to secure this pressing before things went sideways."

"This contains the complete dead wax message?" Ezra asked.

"Not just the dead wax," Sonny replied, positioning the needle precisely. "Listen to the final track first. Aria added something unique to this pressing."

As the music began, Ezra recognized "River's Memory"—the song from the tribute performance, though this version carried a rawness the commercial release lacked. Aria's voice emerged with startling intimacy, as if she were performing specifically for whoever was listening at this exact moment.

"Notice the mix," Sonny said quietly. "Her voice is centered, fully present. Maxwell typically pushed female vocals slightly back in his productions, a technical signature. This mix defies his approach—it was Aria's specification, against his preference."

When the final notes faded, Sonny raised his hand. "Now, the unique element. Listen."

Instead of silence following the music, Aria's speaking voice emerged after several seconds:

"This additional statement appears only on test pressings bearing matrix number SR-7734. If you're hearing this, you've found what Maxwell and Victor tried to suppress."

Ezra leaned closer as the voice continued:

"The contract signed with Meridian Records contains exploitative provisions disguised as standard industry practice. Specific concerns include perpetual rights transfer with no reversion clause, unilateral definition of 'commercial viability,' and most disturbing, automatic rights acceleration upon 'dissolution or permanent incapacitation of primary creative personnel.'"

Aria's voice took on a harder edge:

"In simple terms, Meridian owns our music forever, decides unilaterally what gets released, and takes complete control if any key member dies. This creates an incentive structure where our deaths become financially advantageous to the label."

The statement continued with legal precision, identifying specific contract sections and their implications. Ezra found himself recalling his conversation with Maxwell about how Strand had pressured him to maintain the suicide narrative.

After nearly two minutes of detailed contract analysis, Aria's tone shifted:

"Beyond contractual concerns lies personal exploitation I cannot detail here. Those who need to know already understand. For others seeking truth, look to the divided messages across different pressings. Let the rivers carry what roads cannot."

The voice fell silent, and the needle continued into the dead wax area. Sonny watched with intense focus as it traced the space between the final groove and the label.

"Here it comes," he whispered.

As the needle moved through what should have been silence, the speakers emitted faint surface noise, then captured the subtle vibration of text physically etched into the vinyl—not music but a deliberately inscribed message now transformed back into sound:

"To those who seek complete patterns: The contract enables control through division. The music belongs to those who created it, not those who commodify it. If silence follows these words, remember that waters transform but never truly disappear. Maxwell knows where rivers lead even when he denies their course. My voice continues beyond what contracts contain or death certificates claim. —A"

Sonny lifted the needle carefully as the message ended. "That's what Meridian Records has been suppressing for thirty years. That's why certain pressings were recalled, why the studio mysteriously caught fire, why witnesses were pressured into specific narratives."

Ezra sat back, processing the implications. "It directly challenges their ownership rights and hints at Aria's planned disappearance."

"More than hints," Sonny replied, carefully returning the record to its protective sleeve. "It practically announces her intention to continue making music beyond Meridian's reach."

"Has Mrs. Abbott ever heard this?"

"Never. I've been waiting for the right moment, for someone trustworthy to be present when she does." Sonny fixed Ezra with an evaluating stare. "Are you that person?"

"Why didn't you take this to her directly?"

Sonny's expression darkened. "Strand knows I have this pressing. Has people watching me. If I approached Isadora directly, they'd intervene before she could hear it." He handed the record to Ezra. "You're unknown to them, or were until recently. You can get this to her safely."

Ezra accepted the pressing with appropriate reverence. "This is evidence that could challenge Meridian's entire claim to the catalog."

"It's more than evidence," Sonny corrected. "It's Aria's voice declaring her autonomy. Her final communication as the person they thought they owned."

The shop's bell jingled as the front door opened despite the CLOSED sign.

"We're not open yet," Cecil called from the back room.

"I'm not here to shop," Maxwell's voice replied. "I need to speak with Ezra."

Sonny tensed visibly. "Convenient timing."

"Did you tell him we were meeting?" Ezra asked.

"Hell no," Sonny snapped. "Haven't spoken to Maxwell directly in fifteen years."

Ezra carefully placed the record in his messenger bag before stepping out of the listening booth. Maxwell stood near the counter, looking surprisingly composed for a man who had made multiple significant revelations in the past twenty-four hours.

"Ezra," Maxwell nodded in greeting, then spotted Sonny emerging behind him. His expression hardened. "Adrian. Should have known you'd surface now."

"Maxwell," Sonny acknowledged coldly. "Still protecting Strand's interests after all these years?"

"That's unfair," Maxwell replied, though uncertainty flickered across his face. "I've told Ezra everything—the drugged coffee, the false witness statement, what I actually heard at the river."

"But not about the pressing with the complete message," Sonny countered. "Not about the one you keep in your fireproof safe beneath the mixing console."

Maxwell's eyes widened slightly. "How did you⁠—"

"Because I cut the lacquer, created the stamper, handled the test pressings," Sonny interrupted. "Did you think I wouldn't keep track of where they went?"

"I was protecting her legacy," Maxwell insisted. "If that pressing became public⁠—"

"It just did," Ezra interjected, patting his messenger bag. "Sonny's copy. With Aria's spoken statement about the contract terms and the complete dead wax message."

Maxwell seemed to age before their eyes, shoulders sagging as if a physical weight had settled upon them. "Then it's done. The circle complete." He moved to a nearby stool and sat heavily. "Does Isadora know yet?"

"Not yet," Ezra replied. "I'm taking it to her next."

"I should be there when she hears it," Maxwell said quietly.

Sonny let out a derisive snort. "After thirty years of avoiding her? Now you want to be present for this moment?"

"She deserves to have someone who remembers Aria as she was," Maxwell replied. "Not just as contractual dispute or technical achievement."

"And she deserves to make that choice herself," Ezra said firmly. "I'll tell her you're available if she wants you there."

Cecil emerged from the back room, sensing the tension. "Everything all right out here?"

"Just fine," Sonny answered before anyone else could speak. "Maxwell was just leaving."

Maxwell rose slowly. "I'll be at my cottage if Isadora wants me present." He turned to Ezra. "There's something else you should know. The coroner who ruled Aria's death a suicide? Allen Merrick?"

"What about him?" Ezra asked.

"Check his banking records from November 1990," Maxwell said. "Specifically, deposits from a shell company called Riverside Entertainment Consultants."

"You have evidence of payoffs?" Ezra couldn't hide his surprise.

"I have suspicions and a file folder Strand accidentally left behind during a follow-up meeting." Maxwell headed for the door. "County records office, bankruptcy filings, 1998. Merrick's financial disclosure forms list 'consulting income' from that company among his assets."

After Maxwell left, Sonny shook his head. "Convenient how he remembers these details now, after three decades of silence."

"He seems genuinely remorseful," Ezra observed.

"Remorse doesn't undo damage," Sonny replied sharply. "But at least he's finally sharing what he knows." He gestured toward Ezra's messenger bag. "That pressing is one of the most important artifacts in music history. Its value isn't financial but historical—direct evidence of corporate exploitation and artistic resistance."

"I'll handle it accordingly," Ezra promised.

"One more thing," Sonny said as Ezra prepared to leave. "When Isadora hears this, be prepared for strong reaction. She's maintained composure for thirty years partly by not having conclusive evidence either way about her daughter."

"What do you think this record will tell her?"

Sonny's expression softened slightly. "That her daughter was even braver and more strategic than she knew. And that some voices continue long after their original sounds fade."

---

Mrs. Abbott was reshelving books when Ezra returned to Resonant Pages. The plywood-covered window cast the store in unusual shadow, creating an atmosphere both intimate and slightly disconcerting. Several customers browsed the reorganized shelves, their hushed conversations providing background texture to the scene.

"Any further unwelcome messages?" Ezra asked quietly when she approached.

"None since the brick," she replied. "Though I've received several calls checking on my wellbeing. Word travels quickly when my window gets broken." She studied his expression. "You've found something."

"Not here," Ezra said with a slight nod toward the customers.

Mrs. Abbott glanced at her watch. "I close for lunch in twenty minutes. We can talk then."

Those twenty minutes stretched interminably as Ezra watched Mrs. Abbott assist customers with her usual professional courtesy. Nothing in her demeanor suggested someone who had revealed family secrets and ancient sorrows the night before, nor someone about to face potentially life-altering evidence.

When the last customer finally departed, Mrs. Abbott locked the door and turned the CLOSED sign to face outward. "Reading room," she said simply.

Once they were seated at the table, Ezra carefully removed the record from his messenger bag. "Sonny provided this. It's a test pressing containing the complete dead wax message, along with a spoken statement from Aria about the contract terms."

Mrs. Abbott's hands trembled slightly as she accepted the record, her fingers tracing the label with practiced delicacy. "Matrix number SR-7734," she read. "One of the test pressings that supposedly didn't survive."

"You knew about these?"

"I knew they existed. Maxwell mentioned them once, claimed they'd been destroyed in the studio fire." She examined the vinyl with expert attention. "This appears authentic, though I'd need proper equipment to verify completely."

"I've heard it," Ezra said. "The message directly challenges Meridian's rights to the catalog and hints at Aria's intentions beyond what was publicly known."

Mrs. Abbott's eyes met his. "Did Sonny play this for you at The Turntable?"

"Yes. Cecil provided access to proper equipment."

"Then we should return there to listen," she said decisively. "My home turntable isn't calibrated for archival playback."

"There's something else," Ezra hesitated. "Maxwell wants to be present when you hear this. He's waiting at his cottage if you want him there."

A complex series of emotions crossed Mrs. Abbott's face—surprise, skepticism, consideration, and finally tentative acceptance. "Perhaps it's appropriate," she said slowly. "We've maintained separate relationships with Aria's memory for thirty years. If patterns are truly breaking, this might be the moment for convergence."

"I'll call him," Ezra offered.

"No." Mrs. Abbott rose with sudden determination. "I'll call him myself." She moved to the store phone behind the counter, her posture straightening as if preparing for confrontation.

Ezra couldn't hear her exact words, but the conversation was brief and formal. When she returned, her expression had settled into calm resolve.

"He'll meet us at The Turntable at 2:00 pm," she said. "Cecil has agreed to close the shop for a private listening session." She gestured to the record still lying on the table. "Until then, that should be secured properly."

"Of course," Ezra agreed, carefully returning it to its protective sleeve.

"One question before we proceed," Mrs. Abbott said, fixing him with a penetrating stare. "Do you believe what we're about to hear will provide definitive answers about my daughter's fate?"

Ezra considered carefully. "I believe it will provide her authentic voice and intentions. Whether that constitutes definitive answers depends on what questions you're still asking after thirty years."

Mrs. Abbott nodded, seemingly satisfied with his response. "Fair enough. Some uncertainties may be preferable to certain knowledge, depending on what that knowledge contains."

As she moved to gather her things, Ezra recalled Maxwell's parting information. "There's something else you should know. Maxwell suggested checking the coroner's banking records from November 1990. He believes there's evidence Allen Merrick received payments from a shell company connected to Meridian Records."

Mrs. Abbott paused, her back to Ezra. "I've suspected as much for years," she said quietly. "Allen Merrick's sudden prosperity after ruling on Aria's death without a body seemed too convenient." She turned back, her expression hardened. "Evidence of financial impropriety would certainly support our challenge to the official narrative."

"I'll visit the county records office this afternoon after our listening session," Ezra promised.

"Then we have a full agenda today," Mrs. Abbott said, her voice taking on unexpected energy. "Hearing Aria's complete message, confronting Maxwell directly, and potentially uncovering evidence of corruption in the official investigation."

As they prepared to leave for The Turntable, Ezra noticed a subtle but significant change in Mrs. Abbott's demeanor—not just the breaking of patterns she'd described the night before, but the emergence of something that had lain dormant beneath the carefully maintained façade of the bookstore owner. Glimpses of Isadora, the music chronicler and fierce mother, appeared in her movements and decisions.

The record rested securely in Ezra's messenger bag, its physical presence almost radiating significance. After thirty years of fragmented communication, deliberate suppression, and careful preservation, Aria's complete message would finally reach its intended audience—her mother, her father, and a detective who had pieced together the scattered clues she'd left behind.

Whatever revelations awaited at 2:00 pm, the pattern of silence and separation that had defined Covenridge's relationship with this tragedy was irreversibly broken.

The Turntable's "CLOSED" sign hung in the window as Ezra and Mrs. Abbott approached at precisely 1:55 pm. Despite the mid-afternoon hour, the shop's blinds were drawn, creating an air of clandestine proceedings that matched the gravity of what they were about to hear. Mrs. Abbott paused momentarily before the door, her fingers unconsciously reaching for the moonstone ring she always wore.

"Ready?" Ezra asked, the record secure in his messenger bag.

"I've waited thirty years," she replied. "Five more minutes won't matter."

Cecil opened the door before they could knock, ushering them inside with uncharacteristic solemnity. "I've prepared the listening room," he said, relocking the door behind them. "Premium equipment, isolated power to prevent interference, new stylus for optimal playback."

The shop's interior had been transformed. Display racks had been pushed aside to create a small seating area around the high-end listening station in the back corner. Four chairs formed a semicircle facing the equipment, three already occupied—Maxwell sat stiffly in one, Sonny in another, and to Ezra's surprise, Dahlia in the third.

"I invited Dahlia," Cecil explained, noting Ezra's questioning look. "As town historian and someone who understands Covenridge's relationship with this music. If that's acceptable."

Mrs. Abbott nodded. "Appropriate. She's been keeper of many aspects of this story."

The atmosphere crackled with tension as Mrs. Abbott moved toward the seating area. Her eyes met Maxwell's for the first time in what must have been years of careful avoidance. Whatever silent communication passed between them caused Maxwell to stand, uncertainty evident in his posture.

"Isadora," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Maxwell." She took the seat beside him with deliberate calm. "It seems our careful choreography has finally failed us."

"About time," Dahlia muttered, just loudly enough to be heard.

Cecil gestured toward the turntable. "Ezra, the record?"

Ezra carefully removed the test pressing from his messenger bag and handed it to Cecil, who examined it with professional appreciation before preparing it for playback. The silence as he worked was oppressive, broken only by the mechanical sounds of the turntable being readied.

"Before we begin," Ezra said, "everyone should understand what we're about to hear. This pressing contains not only the complete dead wax message, but a spoken statement from Aria about the contract terms that was never commercially released."

Maxwell leaned forward. "You've already heard it?"

"Sonny played it for me this morning," Ezra confirmed.

"And it's authentic?" Mrs. Abbott asked, her composure betrayed only by the slight tremor in her voice.

Sonny nodded. "I personally supervised the cutting of this test pressing. One of ten made before Strand ordered changes for the commercial release."

Cecil positioned the record on the turntable. "Ready?"

Four solemn nods answered him. As the needle touched the vinyl's surface, the room filled with the unmistakable warmth of analog sound—surface noise giving way to the opening notes of "River's Memory." No one spoke as Aria's voice emerged, filling the space with its haunting clarity.

Ezra watched Mrs. Abbott and Maxwell carefully. They sat inches apart yet separated by decades of grief and blame, both visibly affected by hearing their daughter's voice in this rare, unaltered form. Mrs. Abbott's eyes closed, her lips moving silently along with the lyrics she knew by heart. Maxwell's hands formed chord shapes in his lap, muscle memory responding to music he'd helped create.

When the final notes faded and Aria's speaking voice emerged with her statement about the contract terms, Mrs. Abbott's eyes snapped open. Maxwell went completely still, his breathing shallow as his daughter methodically dissected the exploitation embedded in their recording agreement.

"...automatic rights acceleration upon 'dissolution or permanent incapacitation of primary creative personnel,'" Aria's voice explained from beyond time.

"The death clause," Maxwell whispered. "She understood it completely."

As the spoken section concluded and the needle tracked into the dead wax, the room's tension heightened. The subtle surface noise gave way to the barely audible but distinct sound of Aria's message emerging from what should have been silence:

"To those who seek complete patterns: The contract enables control through division. The music belongs to those who created it, not those who commodify it. If silence follows these words, remember that waters transform but never truly disappear. Maxwell knows where rivers lead even when he denies their course. My voice continues beyond what contracts contain or death certificates claim. —A"

Cecil lifted the needle as the message concluded. For several heartbeats, no one moved or spoke. The message hung in the air between them, its implications expanding to fill the room.

Mrs. Abbott broke the silence, her voice steady despite the emotion evident in her face. "She knew exactly what she was doing."

"Planning her disappearance," Maxwell agreed quietly. "Using the contract's death clause against those who created it."

"'Waters transform but never truly disappear,'" Dahlia quoted. "River imagery was always her specialty."

"'Maxwell knows where rivers lead,'" Ezra repeated, turning to the silver-haired producer. "What did she mean by that?"

Maxwell's face had drained of color. "There's a place upstream from my cottage—a fork where the river divides. Local legend says one branch leads to transformation, the other to destruction." His voice caught. "We used to hike there when she was younger. Before everything fell apart."

"A metaphorical reference to choices," Dahlia suggested. "Or perhaps a literal meeting location."

"There's more," Sonny interjected. "More than just this record." He reached into his bag and produced three small reel-to-reel tapes in protective boxes. "Unmastered recordings from the final session. Not the commercially released versions, not even the studio masters Maxwell kept. These are raw board feeds—everything that happened in the studio, before Maxwell's production and Meridian's filtering."

Mrs. Abbott reached for the tapes with trembling hands. "Where did you get these?"

"I was the engineer for those sessions," Sonny replied. "I kept backup recordings. Standard practice for self-protection in an industry built on exploitation." He turned to Cecil. "Do you still have that reel-to-reel player in the back?"

"Set up and ready," Cecil confirmed. "Been restoring it for months. Almost like someone knew we'd need it."

As Cecil disappeared into the storage room, Mrs. Abbott examined the tape labels. "Session 14, October 1990. Final recordings before..." She didn't finish the sentence.

"These contain more than just music," Sonny explained. "They capture everything—pre-song discussions, arguments between takes, conversations when people thought microphones were off."

"And Strand was there," Maxwell added, his expression darkening. "Along with his lawyers, preparing contracts while we recorded. Creating pressure."

Cecil returned, wheeling in a professional reel-to-reel player on a cart. "Need about ten minutes to set this up properly. The tapes are old—need to adjust tension and check for deterioration before playback."

While Cecil worked with Sonny's assistance, Ezra stepped closer to Dahlia. "Did you know about these recordings?"

"Not specifically," she replied, keeping her voice low. "But I knew Sonny had preserved materials others thought were destroyed. That's why I connected you two." She glanced toward Mrs. Abbott and Maxwell, now sitting in uncomfortable silence. "This is already changing things. Look at them—in the same room after decades of carefully orchestrated avoidance."

"Breaking patterns," Ezra murmured.

"Precisely. Though not all broken patterns lead to healing." Dahlia's expression grew serious. "The brick through Isadora's window proves that powerful interests still want this buried. Be careful, Ezra. You're disrupting more than just personal history here."

Cecil finally stepped back from the reel-to-reel. "Ready. This is Session Tape 14-A, according to the label. Beginning of the final recording day."

The tape began with studio ambience—the hum of equipment, muffled conversations, the sound of instruments being tuned. Then Aria's voice emerged with startling clarity:

"Levels check, please. And can someone tell Victor that we'll discuss the contract addendum after we finish this take, not during?"

A male voice responded off-microphone: "He insists it needs to be signed before the session continues."

"And I insist on completing this song before legal discussions," Aria countered, her tone firm but controlled. "We have studio time booked until 6:00 pm. Plenty of time for both."

Maxwell's voice entered: "Let's just get the paperwork done, Aria. They're not going to leave until it's signed."

"That's exactly why I won't sign yet," Aria replied. "Because they're using studio time as leverage. The more they push, the more convinced I am that there's something they don't want me to notice."

Mrs. Abbott leaned forward, hanging on every word. Maxwell had closed his eyes, the pain of hearing this exchange evident in his expression.

The tape continued with sounds of movement, then the unmistakable voice of Victor Strand:

"This is simply a standard rider clarifying ownership of material recorded in this session. Nothing that wasn't in the original contract."

"Then it can wait until we're finished recording," Aria responded coolly. "I don't sign anything without proper time to review it. Especially after discovering the 'standard terms' in our last agreement."

After sounds of footsteps receding, a new voice spoke close to the microphone—the sound engineer, presumably Sonny: "They've left the control room, but main studio mics are still hot. Watch what you say."

"I don't care anymore," Aria replied. "Let them hear. I've already made my decision."

Maxwell's voice, closer now: "What decision? Aria, what have you done?"

"Protected myself," she answered simply. "Now let's record this track before they come back."

The conversation gave way to music—a raw, emotional performance of a song that sounded familiar yet different from its commercial release. When it ended, the tape captured post-performance conversation:

"One more take," Maxwell directed. "Let's try it with less emphasis on the bridge."

"The bridge is fine," Aria countered. "The problem is the verse arrangement. It's too cluttered."

"We've discussed this," Maxwell replied, frustration evident. "The arrangement stays as written."

"As written by you," Aria said quietly. "Despite my name on the composition."

The control room microphone captured a sigh, then Maxwell speaking more softly: "This isn't the time for creative conflicts. Not with Strand and his lawyers waiting outside."

"It's exactly the time," Aria insisted. "Because this is the last session where they have any control over my creative choices."

The tape continued with similar exchanges between takes—subtle conflicts about artistic direction layered over the increasing tension of the contract dispute happening off-microphone. As the session progressed, Strand's voice occasionally interjected, each appearance more insistent than the last.

Cecil stopped the tape as the first reel ended. "There are two more," he said, preparing to change reels.

Mrs. Abbott turned to Sonny. "Did you know what was on these when you preserved them?"

"Knew they contained unfiltered studio recordings," he replied. "The specific content—the arguments, the contract dispute—I remembered the general atmosphere but not the verbatim exchanges."

While Cecil loaded the second tape, Ezra processed what they'd heard. "Aria repeatedly references this being the 'last session' where they have control. She'd already decided to leave."

"And Strand must have suspected as much," Maxwell added, his voice hollow. "That's why he brought lawyers to a recording session. Unprecedented pressure tactics."

"These tapes prove she wasn't suicidal," Mrs. Abbott said firmly. "She was strategic, prepared, and actively resisting exploitation."

The second tape began with what sounded like a heated exchange already in progress. Aria's voice was closer to the microphone, intensity evident in her tone:

"—absolutely will not sign something extending rights to 'derivative works' without clear definition of that term. For all I know, you could claim my breathing is a derivative work of vocal techniques developed under contract."

Strand's voice responded with practiced reasonableness: "The language is industry standard, Aria. Every artist on our roster has signed identical terms."

"Then every artist on your roster has been exploited," she shot back. "How convenient that this addendum appears on the final day of our contract period. Almost like you intentionally created time pressure."

A new voice—presumably one of Strand's lawyers—interjected: "Ms. Abbott, perhaps you'd be more comfortable discussing this with your legal representation present?"

"I am my own representation today," Aria replied coolly. "And I've studied contract law enough to recognize predatory terms when I see them."

The conversation continued, revealing Aria's sophisticated understanding of the legal implications behind seemingly innocuous contract language. She systematically dismantled each clause Strand presented, identifying the potential for exploitation in provisions disguised as standard business terms.

Maxwell's voice eventually entered the exchange: "Maybe we should take a break. Continue this discussion tomorrow when everyone's had time to review the language."

"There is no tomorrow in this contract period," Aria replied, her voice steady but intense. "That's their entire strategy, Maxwell. Create urgency, force decisions, exploit confusion."

As the second tape progressed, the conversation occasionally shifted to musical matters, but the underlying tension remained palpable. During one quiet moment between takes, the microphone captured a whispered exchange between Aria and someone close by—presumably one of the band members:

"Are you really going through with it?" the male voice asked.

"Everything's arranged," Aria confirmed softly. "After the meeting tomorrow at the riverside. One way or another, I'll be free of this."

"Be careful," the voice cautioned. "Strand isn't just protecting a contract. He's protecting a precedent. If you succeed..."

"Others might follow," Aria completed. "Exactly why it matters."

The third tape contained the final hour of the session, where the atmosphere had deteriorated further. Strand's voice appeared more frequently, his reasonable tone increasingly strained. At one point, the microphone captured him speaking to someone away from the main conversation:

"Make sure Allen's available tomorrow. We may need official documentation depending on how this resolves."

Maxwell visibly started at this. "Allen. Allen Merrick—the coroner," he said, pausing the tape. "Strand was arranging for official documentation before Aria even disappeared."

"Premeditation," Ezra noted, the implications chilling.

"Or preparation for multiple contingencies," Dahlia suggested. "Either way, it confirms the death ruling wasn't an objective medical determination."

Cecil restarted the tape. The final segments captured the conclusion of the recording session, with Aria's last vocal take—a haunting performance that even in its raw form conveyed extraordinary emotional depth. As the music ended, her voice addressed the control room:

"That's the final take. No more revisions, no more adjustments. What exists now is complete."

The double meaning was unmistakable.

After the tape concluded, silence filled The Turntable's listening area. Each person seemed absorbed in processing what they'd heard—undeniable evidence that Aria had been systematically planning her exit from both the band and her contract, that Strand had been applying extraordinary pressure to prevent this, and most disturbingly, that official channels had been arranged in advance to document whatever outcome resulted.

Mrs. Abbott finally broke the silence. "She knew exactly what she was facing. The risks, the legal implications, everything."

"And was still determined to proceed," Ezra added.

"The reference to 'tomorrow at the riverside' confirms the timing," Maxwell said, his voice strained. "The meeting at my cottage where everything fell apart."

"These recordings transform the entire narrative," Ezra observed. "From tragic suicide to calculated resistance against corporate exploitation."

"They're also dangerous," Sonny interjected. "If Meridian's legal team knew these existed, they'd move aggressively to seize or discredit them."

Dahlia nodded grimly. "The brick through the window was just a warning. These tapes represent potential financial liability—contract violations, possible conspiracy, evidence undermining thirty years of catalog management."

"We need to secure copies immediately," Ezra said. "Multiple formats, multiple locations."

Cecil was already ahead of him, connecting recording equipment to the reel-to-reel. "I can create digital backups now. But distribution is the question—who keeps copies, where are they stored, how do we ensure they can't all be located and seized?"

"I have secure cloud storage," Ezra offered. "Password protected, encrypted."

"Not enough," Sonny countered. "Digital evidence can be compromised, servers seized. We need physical copies in multiple locations, like Aria did with the dead wax messages—distributed information that can't be completely suppressed."

As they discussed security measures, Mrs. Abbott turned to Maxwell, their first direct conversation Ezra had witnessed. "You mentioned county records containing evidence of payments to Allen Merrick," she said. "We need to secure those before they mysteriously disappear."

Maxwell nodded. "Bankruptcy filings from 1998. Merrick declared Chapter 7, had to list all income sources and outstanding payments. 'Consulting fees' from Riverside Entertainment Consultants—Strand's shell company for handling unofficial transactions."

"The county records office closes at 4:00 pm," Ezra noted, checking his watch. "It's 3:10 pm now."

"Go," Dahlia urged. "Cecil and I can handle the tape duplication. Mrs. Abbott should accompany you—her standing in the community might help navigate bureaucratic obstacles."

"I'll come too," Maxwell said, rising. "I know exactly what we're looking for."

The unexpected alignment of Maxwell and Mrs. Abbott—working together after decades of careful separation—struck Ezra as perhaps the most significant pattern breakage yet. Whatever remained unresolved between them had been temporarily set aside in service of a greater purpose: establishing the truth about their daughter.

As they prepared to leave, Sonny caught Ezra's arm. "Be careful. The more evidence you accumulate, the more dangerous this becomes. Strand has resources beyond local influence—corporate security, legal teams, financial leverage."

"We'll take precautions," Ezra assured him.

"One more thing," Sonny added, keeping his voice low. "Those tapes contain references to locations around Covenridge that might help identify the escape route Aria planned. Listen for mentions of 'the fork,' 'Maxwell's channel,' and 'the old crossing.' They're not just poetic river imagery—they're actual places along the waterway."

Ezra nodded, adding this to his mental investigation board. "If she escaped rather than died, she would have needed a route that avoided detection."

"Exactly. And in Covenridge, water has always provided paths that roads don't follow."

Outside The Turntable, afternoon sunlight seemed discordantly bright compared to the revelations they'd just experienced. Mrs. Abbott paused on the sidewalk, blinking in the sudden glare.

"Thirty years," she said quietly. "Thirty years of carefully preserved uncertainty suddenly crystallizing into likely truth."

"The tapes don't prove she survived," Maxwell cautioned, keeping his voice low despite the empty street. "Only that she planned an exit."

"They prove she wasn't suicidal," Mrs. Abbott countered. "Which transforms everything that followed." She turned to Ezra. "County records office. Before anyone realizes what we've discovered."

As they headed toward Ezra's car, he glanced back at The Turntable. Through the window, he could see Cecil and Dahlia already working with the tapes, creating copies of evidence that had remained hidden for three decades. The unmastered recordings—raw, unfiltered truth captured before corporate production or legal manipulation—might finally complete the circuit of understanding that began with fragmentary messages hidden in vinyl's silent spaces.

The patterns weren't just breaking; they were realigning into a new configuration where truth, however uncomfortable, could finally emerge from the margins.

The Covenridge River roared with unusual force as Ezra navigated the now-familiar path to Maxwell's cottage. Yesterday's rain had swollen the waterway, transforming its normally persistent murmur into an angry declaration. Fitting backdrop, he thought, for what promised to be a difficult confrontation.

In his messenger bag, Ezra carried the accumulated evidence—copies of the unmastered tapes, photographs of Allen Merrick's bankruptcy filings showing suspicious "consulting" payments, and most damning of all, the complete dead wax message now transcribed and annotated. The county records office had yielded exactly what Maxwell had suggested—financial documents connecting the coroner to Strand's shell company through payments made immediately after Aria's death was ruled a suicide.

The guitar strings suspended from tree branches along the path played discordant melodies in the breeze, their sound mingling with the river's constant commentary. As Maxwell's cottage came into view, Ezra paused, mentally preparing himself. The rustic structure appeared more forbidding today, its weathered wood seeming to absorb rather than reflect the afternoon light.

Before he could knock, the door swung open. Maxwell stood in the threshold, his silver hair pulled back tightly, eyes bloodshot from either lack of sleep or recent drinking.

"You came alone," Maxwell observed, scanning the path behind Ezra.

"Should I have brought reinforcements?"

Maxwell's mouth twitched in what might have been an attempted smile. "Depends on what you're here for."

"The truth. All of it this time."

Maxwell stepped back, allowing Ezra to enter. The cottage's interior smelled of coffee and old wood, with a new underlying scent Ezra couldn't immediately identify. Recording equipment still lined one wall, though some pieces had been rearranged since his last visit.

"I assume you found what you were looking for at the county records office," Maxwell said, moving toward his kitchen area. "Coffee?"

"No, thanks." Ezra remained standing. "Mrs. Abbott and I found exactly what you mentioned. Merrick received three payments of ten thousand dollars from Riverside Entertainment Consultants between November 1990 and January 1991."

"Right after he ruled Aria's death a suicide without a body." Maxwell filled a mug for himself. "Convenient timing."

"You knew about this for years and said nothing?"

Maxwell's hands tightened around his mug. "I suspected. Didn't have proof until Strand accidentally left a folder behind during a follow-up meeting in '92. By then, I was deep in my own complicity."

"And the tapes?" Ezra asked. "Did you know Sonny had preserved unedited recordings of the final sessions?"

"Adrian was always careful about documentation." Maxwell settled into an armchair, gesturing for Ezra to take the seat opposite. "I assumed most of it burned in the studio fire."

Ezra remained standing. "Those tapes contradict everything in the official narrative. They show Aria was planning her exit, not her suicide. They capture Strand arranging for the coroner's involvement before she even disappeared."

"And now you have it all," Maxwell said, his voice flat. "The dead wax message, the unmastered tapes, the financial records. Everything needed to dismantle thirty years of carefully constructed fiction." He took a long sip of coffee, then asked, "What do you intend to do with it?"

"That depends on what you tell me now." Ezra finally sat, placing his messenger bag on the table between them. "I want the complete truth about what happened the day Aria disappeared."

Outside, the river's voice rose in volume as if demanding the same answers. The constant sound of rushing water created an unsettling backdrop to their conversation—a reminder of what had been lost, what had been hidden.

Maxwell set down his mug carefully. "I've already told you I was drugged during the meeting. That I heard a confrontation and a splash, but never actually saw what happened."

"That's just the outline," Ezra countered. "I need details. Who else was in that meeting besides Strand and his lawyers? What exactly did you hear during the confrontation? What happened after you regained consciousness?"

Maxwell's eyes drifted toward the window where the river was visible, sunlight catching its turbulent surface. "Five people at the meeting. Strand, two attorneys from Meridian's legal department, and two security personnel—ex-police officers on Meridian's payroll."

"Names?"

"The lawyers were Davis and Hoffman. Security guys were Reeves and Carter." Maxwell's fingers drummed against his thigh. "Standard intimidation setup—lawyers with paperwork, security guys standing silent by the door."

"And Aria arrived during this meeting?"

"About an hour in. She had her own documentation—the Seattle studio contract, evidence of contract violations, a formal statement declaring her independence from both the band and Meridian."

"Then what happened?"

Maxwell closed his eyes, as if physically pained by the memory. "Strand started reasonable enough. Counteroffers, appeals to loyalty, reminders of what Meridian had 'invested' in her career. When that didn't work, the attorneys took over with legal threats—breach of contract, copyright violations, potential lawsuits that would 'follow her wherever she went.'"

"How did Aria respond?"

"With remarkable composure." A flicker of pride crossed Maxwell's face. "She had studied the contracts extensively, could cite specific provisions they had violated. She recorded their verbal threats as evidence. She was...formidable."

"You said you were drugged," Ezra prompted. "When did that happen?"

"They brought coffee and pastries. Professional hospitality." Maxwell's laugh held no humor. "I'd already had a drink before they arrived—my usual pre-meeting courage. Started feeling strange about twenty minutes after the coffee. Room spinning, couldn't focus. By the time Aria arrived, I was barely functional."

"And no one else seemed affected?"

"No. They clearly targeted my cup." Maxwell's voice hardened. "I was the weak link. The compromised father who could be manipulated."

"What do you remember next?"

"Aria left after rejecting their final offer. Said she had documented everything and would see them in court if necessary." Maxwell's hands began trembling slightly. "One of the security men—Carter—followed her out. Strand stayed with me, kept talking about how everything would be 'properly handled' and that I should rest."

"What exactly did he mean by 'properly handled'?"

Maxwell's eyes met Ezra's directly. "At the time, I assumed standard legal maneuvering. In retrospect, I think he meant something much darker."

The river seemed to grow louder, its rushing commentary filling the momentary silence between them.

"How long were you unconscious?" Ezra asked.

"Hours. Woke up disoriented, alone in the cottage." Maxwell's trembling had spread to his voice. "That's when I heard the shouting from the direction of Singer's Fall. Male voice, angry. Aria's voice, defiant. Then silence."

"What time was this?"

"Around 6:00 pm, based on the light. Sunset was approaching."

"And the splash you heard—could it have been something other than Aria entering the water?"

Maxwell's expression shifted from guilt to something more complex. "That's the question that's haunted me for thirty years. I assumed it was Aria. But what if..."

"What if it was Carter?" Ezra finished for him. "What if there was a confrontation that ended differently than either side expected?"

"I'll never know for certain," Maxwell admitted. "By the time I reached Singer's Fall, there was no one there. I searched the banks, calling her name, but couldn't see well in the fading light. Eventually collapsed from exhaustion and whatever drugs remained in my system."

"Then what?"

"Woke again to Strand and Sheriff Jenkins standing over me. Strand explained they'd found evidence suggesting Aria had jumped. That given my condition, my statement about witnessing it would be the 'kindest way to close the case.'"

"And you agreed." Ezra's voice held no accusation, just confirmation.

"I was still disoriented, overwhelmed with guilt for failing her again." Maxwell looked away. "By the time I fully understood what I'd done, the official narrative was established. My statement given and documented."

Ezra leaned forward, closing the physical distance between them. "So you never saw Aria jump. Never witnessed her death at all. The entire suicide narrative was Strand's creation, which you agreed to repeat."

"Yes." The simple word seemed to cost Maxwell physically. He slumped in his chair, decades of deception suddenly visible in his posture.

"Who else knows the truth?"

"Strand. The security men. Maybe the attorneys." Maxwell's voice had gone flat. "And now you."

Ezra removed the annotated transcript of the dead wax message from his bag, placing it on the table between them. "This suggests Aria anticipated something might happen. That she had contingency plans."

Maxwell didn't look at the document. "She was always three steps ahead. Strategic in ways I never managed."

"The message references 'waters transform but never truly disappear' and states that you 'know where rivers lead even when you deny their course.'" Ezra watched Maxwell's reaction carefully. "What did she mean?"

Maxwell's eyes darted toward the window again, then back to Ezra. His hands clenched into fists, then slowly released.

"There's a place upstream," he said, voice barely audible above the river's roar. "A fork where the river divides. One branch leads to a hidden valley, the other returns to the main channel. We used to hike there when she was younger."

"Could it have been a reference to an escape route?"

"Possibly." Maxwell stood suddenly, moving to the window. "There's an old logging road that follows the hidden branch. Leads to the next county without passing through Covenridge proper."

Ezra remained seated, giving Maxwell space. "And the campsite Mrs. Abbott found near Singer's Fall? The one that was cleaned up before she could return?"

"Aria used that spot sometimes to write. Private place where the river acoustics were unique." Maxwell pressed his palm against the window glass. "If she was planning to disappear rather than die..."

"She would have needed supplies, transportation, a route that avoided detection," Ezra completed. "The campsite could have been a temporary staging point."

Maxwell turned back, his expression transformed by a rage that seemed to emerge from nowhere. "Do you understand what you're suggesting? That my daughter might still be alive? That I've spent thirty years drowning in guilt over a death that never happened?"

The sudden shift in Maxwell's demeanor caught Ezra off guard. The older man's hands were shaking violently now, his face flushed with anger or distress or both.

"I'm suggesting the evidence points to possibilities beyond the official narrative," Ezra replied carefully, rising from his chair. "Including the possibility that Aria survived whatever happened at Singer's Fall."

"And you think that's comforting?" Maxwell's voice rose, nearly shouting now. "To know I've lived in isolation, in shame, in grief—while she might have been alive somewhere the entire time? That my cowardice and complicity were rewarded with decades of unnecessary suffering?"

Maxwell grabbed a nearby recording reel and hurled it against the wall, where it broke open, tape spilling across the floor like entrails.

"Thirty years!" he shouted. "Thirty years of carrying this weight! Of avoiding Isadora's eyes! Of drowning myself in alcohol until I couldn't remember what I'd done or failed to do!"

Ezra remained still, recognizing the dangerous emotional territory they had entered. Maxwell's rage wasn't directed at him but at the possible truth—that his suffering, while deserved for his failures, might have been built around a central falsehood.

"Your suffering was real regardless," Ezra said quietly. "Your failures toward Aria were real. Your complicity was real."

"Don't patronize me," Maxwell snapped, though some of the fury had already begun draining from his voice. "You have no idea what it's like to lose a child—or to realize you never properly claimed her in the first place."

"You're right," Ezra acknowledged. "I don't know that pain. But Mrs. Abbott does. And she's spent thirty years preserving the possibility that Aria might have survived, while never finding confirmation."

The mention of Mrs. Abbott seemed to deflate Maxwell completely. His shoulders sagged, and he sank back into his chair, head in his hands.

"Isadora," he murmured. "She always knew, didn't she? Always suspected the suicide story was a lie, even before I admitted it."

"She knew you, Maxwell. Knew your patterns." Ezra sat again, maintaining eye contact. "What she doesn't know—what none of us know for certain—is what happened to Aria after the confrontation you heard."

The river's constant voice filled the silence that followed. After several minutes, Maxwell looked up, his eyes red but dry.

"There's something else," he said, voice steadier now. "Something I've never told anyone."

Ezra waited, letting Maxwell find his words.

"Three years ago, I received a small package. No return address, postmarked from New Mexico." Maxwell rose and moved to his shelving unit, retrieving a book from behind his sound equipment. "This poetry collection. Published under the name 'A.' No author photo, no biography."

He handed the book to Ezra—the same "River Crossings" collection Mrs. Abbott had shown him.

"The poems incorporate phrases from the dead wax messages," Maxwell continued. "Technical details about our recording process that weren't public knowledge. Emotional truths only Aria would know."

"Mrs. Abbott received a copy too," Ezra said. "She had literary analysts compare the writing style to Aria's known work. They confirmed the linguistic patterns match."

Maxwell's eyes widened. "Isadora got one? She never told me."

"You two haven't exactly been on speaking terms for thirty years," Ezra reminded him gently.

"No. We haven't." Maxwell reclaimed the book, holding it carefully. "If this is from Aria—if she's alive somewhere writing under a new identity—then everything I've done since her disappearance has been a waste. My isolation, my silence, my protection of the false narrative."

"Not everything," Ezra corrected. "You preserved her master tapes. Protected her unreleased work from Meridian's control. Maintained your riverside property where her voice was first properly recorded."

The river seemed to respond to these words with a momentary surge in volume, water rushing over rocks in complex patterns of sound.

"What do you intend to do now?" Maxwell asked, his voice holding a new, fragile quality. "With all the evidence you've gathered?"

Ezra considered his answer carefully. Throughout his investigation, he had maintained professional detachment, even as his interest in the case became increasingly personal. But in this moment, facing Maxwell's broken patterns and raw vulnerability, that detachment finally shattered completely.

"I'm going to find the truth," he said. "Not just as a professional exercise, but because Aria deserves justice. Because Mrs. Abbott deserves answers after thirty years of uncertainty. And yes, because you deserve to know whether your failures resulted in your daughter's death or just her departure from your life."

"Strand won't allow this to proceed unchallenged," Maxwell warned. "The financial stakes are enormous—reissue campaigns, streaming rights, anniversary merchandising. The entire value of the catalog depends on maintaining the tragic mythology."

"I'm counting on his resistance," Ezra replied. "Because his actions will reveal as much as his words."

"He has resources beyond what you can imagine. Corporate security, legal teams that specialize in suppressing inconvenient truths." Maxwell's concern seemed genuine now, the earlier rage completely subsided.

"I have something more valuable," Ezra said. "Distributed evidence that can't be completely suppressed. Just like Aria planned with the dead wax messages."

Maxwell nodded slowly, something like respect entering his expression. "What do you need from me to proceed?"

"Everything you haven't told me yet," Ezra answered without hesitation. "Every detail about Strand's security team. Names, descriptions, last known locations. The exact words used when they pressured you to corroborate the suicide story. And anything you know about the fork in the river that might have served as Aria's escape route."

Outside, the river continued its relentless commentary, water flowing over paths both visible and hidden. Inside, Maxwell Richards—producer, father, and keeper of a thirty-year deception—finally prepared to reveal every detail of how a young singer's voice had been silenced by those who claimed to amplify it.

The confrontation Ezra had anticipated had transformed from anger to breakdown to something approaching cooperation. As Maxwell began providing names and details, Ezra realized they had crossed a threshold from which there was no return. The patterns weren't just broken—they were being rebuilt into something new, something closer to truth than either man had expected to find in this riverside cottage where water's constant voice demanded recognition at last.

The Starlight Music Hall stood silhouetted against the late afternoon sky, its Art Deco façade catching the slanting sunlight despite decades of neglect. Ezra surveyed the partially restored building from the sidewalk, clipboard in hand as he checked details against his carefully organized list. Three days had passed since his river confrontation with Maxwell, three days of planning for what might be the most important gathering in Covenridge's recent history.

Martin Gellert limped toward him from the side entrance, leaning on his carved wooden cane.

"Sound system's ready," the elderly stagehand reported. "Tested it twice. Original recordings will play through vintage equipment exactly as requested."

"Thank you," Ezra replied. "How many chairs have we set up?"

"Thirty in a semicircle facing the stage. More available if needed." Martin gestured toward the building. "Committee's been working round the clock cleaning. Never seen them so energized."

"How much does the committee know about tonight's purpose?"

"Only that it's a private memorial for Aria with presentation of new evidence regarding her death." Martin's weathered face creased with curiosity. "The actual evidence remains your secret, though rumors are flying faster than spring pollen."

Ezra nodded, making another check on his list. "Has anyone seen Strand since yesterday?"

"Gone." Martin shook his head. "Checked out of the Mountain View Inn at dawn. Left so fast he forgot to return his room key."

"Convenient timing."

"Man knows when a storm's brewing." Martin tapped his cane on the pavement for emphasis. "Speaking of which, Maxwell Richards actually inside the hall, helping set up equipment. Thirty years of avoidance broken in an afternoon."

Ezra's phone vibrated. A text from Dahlia: "Bringing Mrs. Abbott at 7:00 pm. She's ready but understandably tense. Crowd gathering outside venue. Word has spread."

He checked his watch: 5:30 pm. Ninety minutes to finalize preparations for what he'd carefully termed a "Vinyl Memorial" on the discreet invitations sent to selected community members.

"I'd better get inside," Ezra said, pocketing his phone. "Need to check on Maxwell."

The hall's interior held the distinctive smell of old buildings partially reclaimed from decay—dust and mildew undercut by fresh paint and wood polish. Shafts of light from the high windows illuminated the auditorium where preserved seats faced the stage. The preservation committee had done remarkable work stabilizing the structure while maintaining its historical integrity.

On stage, Maxwell knelt beside a vintage sound system, his silver hair tucked beneath a worn cap as he meticulously adjusted connections. He looked up as Ezra's footsteps echoed in the space.

"Testing output levels," Maxwell explained without preamble. "These original recordings have different dynamic range than modern mixes. Need calibration for proper playback."

"How are you holding up?" Ezra asked, stopping at the edge of the stage.

Maxwell's hands stilled on the equipment. "Thirty years since I last stood on this stage. Feels like yesterday and another lifetime simultaneously." He straightened, wincing slightly at the effort. "I've prepared what I need to say. Written it down, though I doubt I'll need the notes."

"Mrs. Abbott will be here at seven."

"Isadora." Maxwell corrected quietly, testing the name as if reacquainting himself with its sound. "I keep forgetting you know her by both identities now."

"Are you ready to face her publicly? To acknowledge everything?"

Maxwell's expression hardened with resolve. "I've hidden from this moment for three decades. It's long overdue."

From the back of the hall came sounds of activity—preservation committee members arranging refreshments, checking lighting, preparing for the gathering. The community's quiet participation in this event spoke volumes about its significance.

"The record's ready for playback?" Ezra asked.

Maxwell nodded. "Cleaned and tested. The complete message will be audible through this system." He gestured to the vintage equipment he'd personally selected. "I've also prepared the unmastered tapes for sequential presentation."

"Perfect." Ezra made another check on his clipboard. "Cecil's bringing additional copies for distribution to attendees. Sonny's handling security at the entrances."

"Sonny's here too?" Maxwell looked surprised. "He's avoided public gatherings even longer than I have."

"This matters enough to break old patterns." Ezra studied the older man carefully. "You understand what we're doing tonight goes beyond memorial. We're presenting a case that challenges the official narrative about Aria's death."

"With potential legal implications for Meridian Records, Strand, and anyone else involved in the cover-up." Maxwell nodded grimly. "Including me."

"Your testimony is crucial. You're the only witness to what happened at your cottage that day."

"A compromised witness who maintained a lie for thirty years." Maxwell's self-recrimination was evident. "Not exactly reliable in legal terms."

"But corroborated by physical evidence, financial records, and the unmastered tapes." Ezra moved closer, lowering his voice. "The truth has weight regardless of how long it remained hidden."

Maxwell resumed his equipment adjustments, a technical retreat from emotional territory. "What about the possibility we discussed? That Aria might still be alive somewhere?"

"We present the evidence we have—that the suicide narrative is demonstrably false. That Aria had planned an escape route. That her body was never recovered despite the river's recirculating current." Ezra chose his words carefully. "Beyond that, we acknowledge uncertainty without making claims we can't substantiate."

Maxwell nodded, seemingly satisfied with this approach. "Strand's absence is telling."

"His lawyers probably advised immediate departure once they realized how much evidence we've assembled." Ezra checked his watch again. "I need to review my presentation notes. The stage is yours until seven."

As Ezra walked back down the center aisle, he glanced over his shoulder. Maxwell stood at center stage, eyes closed, one hand resting on the vintage sound equipment that would soon play his daughter's voice in the space where she'd last performed publicly. The image held power beyond words—a father finally confronting his greatest failure in the very location where it had begun.

Outside the hall, the afternoon light had softened toward evening. A small crowd had indeed gathered near the entrance—perhaps twenty people standing in quiet conversation. Ezra recognized Cecil from The Turntable, the sheriff looking uncomfortable in a suit rather than his uniform, several preservation committee members, and local residents who had known Aria or followed The Starlight Wanderers during their brief career.

Inside his temporary office—a converted dressing room backstage—Ezra reviewed his presentation materials one final time. The evidence was arranged chronologically: the timeline of events leading to Aria's disappearance, photographic documentation of Singer's Fall's physical characteristics, financial records showing payments to the coroner, and transcripts of the unmastered tapes revealing Aria's state of mind before her disappearance.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in," he called.

Sonny entered, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a clean button-down shirt rather than his usual work clothes. His silver ponytail was neatly combed, though anxiety showed clearly in his posture.

"Perimeter's secure," he reported. "No sign of Strand or his people. Press has been kept at bay with Martin's help."

"Thank you," Ezra said. "The record's ready for playback?"

"Maxwell's handled it personally. That man may have failed as a father, but his technical standards remain impeccable." Sonny shifted his weight nervously. "There's something else you should know. Jennifer Reeves is outside."

"The music journalist?" Ezra recalled the woman who had confronted Mrs. Abbott at the bookstore. "I didn't invite her."

"She's not asking to attend. Says she has information that might supplement your presentation." Sonny handed Ezra a sealed envelope. "Asked me to give you this before the memorial begins."

Ezra opened the envelope, finding a typed note and what appeared to be photocopied legal documents.

"Internal Meridian Records memo from 1990," Sonny explained. "Detailing contingency plans in case any band member attempted to leave before fulfilling contract obligations. Special section about Aria and 'incentivizing continued cooperation.'"

Ezra scanned the document quickly, his jaw tightening at certain phrases. "This confirms they were preparing aggressive measures before she disappeared."

"Reeves says her source is reliable but unwilling to testify publicly. Former Meridian legal department secretary who kept copies as insurance."

"This adds another layer to our evidence." Ezra carefully placed the documents with his presentation materials. "Did she say why she's providing this now?"

"Professional integrity, apparently. Says her article on Aria was always meant to question the suicide narrative, not reinforce it." Sonny checked his watch. "People are taking their seats. Twenty minutes until we begin."

After Sonny left, Ezra incorporated the new information into his presentation notes. The document provided further confirmation of Meridian's aggressive stance toward Aria's planned departure—corporate evidence supporting Maxwell's personal testimony.

At 6:50 pm, Ezra made his way back to the main auditorium. The transformation from his earlier visit was remarkable. Soft lighting illuminated the preserved seating area where about twenty-five people now sat in expectant silence. On stage, a single spotlight illuminated the vintage sound equipment and turntable. Beside it stood a small podium with a microphone.

Maxwell sat in the front row, his face composed but tension evident in his rigid posture. The seat beside him remained empty—reserved for Mrs. Abbott. The preservation committee members occupied a section to one side, while other attendees filled the remaining chairs.

At precisely 7:00 pm, the side door opened. Dahlia entered first, followed by Mrs. Abbott. The bookstore owner wore a deep purple dress similar to the one from the Solstice Festival, her silver-streaked hair arranged in a simple but elegant style. She moved with deliberate dignity, her eyes scanning the room before settling on Maxwell in the front row.

A collective intake of breath seemed to ripple through the attendees. Many had never seen these two people in the same room, despite their shared history being common knowledge.

Ezra moved to greet Mrs. Abbott, offering his arm as she navigated the center aisle. Her hand trembled slightly against his sleeve, but her expression remained composed.

"Are you ready?" he asked quietly.

"I've been preparing for thirty years," she replied, her voice steady.

When they reached the front row, Mrs. Abbott stood before Maxwell, who rose immediately. For a long moment, they regarded each other in silence—former lovers, parents of a lost daughter, adversaries in grief transformed by time into reluctant allies.

"Isadora," Maxwell said simply.

"Maxwell," she acknowledged with a slight nod. "It seems we've finally run out of ways to avoid this moment."

"I believe we have."

Without further exchange, she took the seat beside him. Dahlia settled on Mrs. Abbott's other side, her protective presence a buffer against the emotional intensity of the situation.

Ezra moved to the stage, taking position behind the podium. The hall's renowned acoustics made a microphone almost unnecessary, but he activated it nonetheless—this event needed to be properly documented.

"Thank you all for coming," he began. "This gathering serves multiple purposes: to honor Aria Abbott Richards' memory, to present new evidence regarding the circumstances of her disappearance, and to begin the process of correcting a narrative that has gone unchallenged for too long."

The formal name—Aria Abbott Richards—hung in the air, its public utterance already signifying the evening's intent. Maxwell visibly stiffened at hearing his surname attached to Aria's, while Mrs. Abbott's expression remained carefully neutral.

"Many of you knew Aria personally. Others know her only through her music and the mythology that formed after her disappearance in 1990. Tonight, we'll examine the evidence that suggests much of what you've heard about her fate was deliberately constructed to serve interests beyond truth."

Ezra gestured toward the sound equipment. "We'll begin with something few have ever heard—Aria's voice in its purest form, captured during private recording sessions before her final performance in this very hall."

He nodded to Cecil, who had positioned himself near the equipment. The turntable began to spin, and after a moment of surface noise, Aria's voice filled the space—clear, powerful, and eerily present. The recording was one from Sonny's collection, a solo performance without accompanying instruments or production effects.

The impact on the audience was immediate and visceral. Several people closed their eyes, transported by the otherworldly quality of hearing her voice in the very space where she had last performed. Mrs. Abbott pressed her fingertips to her lips, while Maxwell sat unnaturally still, as if afraid movement might shatter the illusion of presence the recording created.

When the song ended, Ezra allowed the silence to linger before continuing.

"That recording captures something the commercially released versions never could—Aria's voice on her own terms, without filtering or production adjustments. It represents what she was fighting to preserve in the days before her disappearance."

For the next thirty minutes, Ezra methodically presented the evidence—the physical characteristics of Singer's Fall that contradicted the suicide narrative, the financial records showing payments to the coroner, and most compellingly, excerpts from the unmastered tapes revealing the pressure Aria faced from Meridian Records.

"These tapes document Aria actively planning her future, not her end," Ezra explained. "They capture her resistance to exploitative contract terms and her determination to reclaim her artistic independence."

The audience listened with growing tension as the picture emerged—a young woman systematically pressured by powerful corporate interests, fighting to maintain control of her voice and career.

"Now," Ezra said, reaching a crucial point in his presentation, "I invite Maxwell Richards to share his direct testimony about what actually occurred the day Aria disappeared."

Maxwell rose slowly from his seat and made his way to the stage. He appeared smaller somehow under the lights, his usual defenses stripped away by the venue and occasion. Taking position behind the podium, he looked out at the gathered faces, his eyes eventually settling on Mrs. Abbott.

"For thirty years," he began, his voice rougher than usual, "I've maintained a fiction about Aria's final day. I claimed to have witnessed her suicide at Singer's Fall. That was a lie."

A murmur passed through the audience. Mrs. Abbott remained perfectly still, her eyes fixed on Maxwell.

"The truth is I was drugged during a meeting with Meridian Records executives. When I regained consciousness, Aria was already gone." Maxwell gripped the edges of the podium. "I heard a confrontation near the river, heard a splash, but never saw what actually happened."

He detailed the events Ezra had already extracted during their river confrontation—the contract meeting, Strand's security personnel following Aria, his own compromised state, and the suspicious circumstances surrounding the official determination of suicide.

"I agreed to corroborate Strand's story out of cowardice and confusion," Maxwell admitted. "By the time I understood the full implications, the narrative was established. My silence since then has been another form of cowardice."

He paused, visibly gathering strength for what came next.

"Most unforgivable of all, I never publicly acknowledged what everyone in this town already knew—that Aria was my daughter." His voice cracked slightly. "I denied her that basic recognition in life, failed to protect her when it mattered most, then helped conceal the truth about her disappearance."

The hall had gone completely silent. Even the building's normal creaks and settling sounds seemed suspended.

"Isadora," Maxwell said, addressing Mrs. Abbott directly, "there is no apology adequate for these failures. But you deserve the public acknowledgment I should have offered decades ago: Aria was our daughter. I was her father in biology if never properly in action."

Mrs. Abbott's composure remained intact, though the cost of maintaining it was visible in her tightly clasped hands. She gave a single, slight nod—acceptance of the acknowledgment if not forgiveness for the failures.

Maxwell returned to his seat as Ezra resumed the podium.

"Based on the evidence presented, including Maxwell's testimony, we believe Aria's death was not suicide but likely resulted from a confrontation with Meridian's security personnel." Ezra carefully avoided definitive statements about murder. "She had been planning to leave Covenridge for a new beginning in Seattle, and the confrontation near Singer's Fall may have been an attempt to prevent that departure."

He gestured toward the sound equipment again. "Finally, I want to share something that ties these pieces together—the complete message Aria left in the dead wax of test pressings that were subsequently suppressed by Meridian Records."

Cecil carefully placed the test pressing on the turntable. As the needle tracked through what should have been silence, the hall's acoustics amplified the subtle vibrations of text physically inscribed in the vinyl. Aria's final communication emerged, transformed from visual text to audible declaration:

"To those who seek complete patterns: The contract enables control through division. The music belongs to those who created it, not those who commodify it. If silence follows these words, remember that waters transform but never truly disappear. Maxwell knows where rivers lead even when he denies their course. My voice continues beyond what contracts contain or death certificates claim. —A"

When the message concluded, Mrs. Abbott finally broke. Her carefully maintained composure crumbled as silent tears tracked down her face. Dahlia immediately placed a supportive arm around her shoulders while, after a moment's hesitation, Maxwell tentatively reached for her hand. To everyone's surprise, Mrs. Abbott accepted the gesture, their fingers intertwining for the first time in thirty years.

Ezra allowed this moment to unfold naturally before concluding.

"This evidence doesn't provide absolute certainty about Aria's fate," he said carefully. "But it conclusively disproves the suicide narrative that has shaped Covenridge's understanding of this tragedy for three decades. It reveals a deliberate corporate effort to control both Aria's voice and the story of her disappearance."

He glanced toward the empty seat that had been reserved for Victor Strand. "Notable in their absence are those who crafted and maintained this false narrative. When confronted with our investigation, they chose departure over accountability."

Martin Gellert rose from his seat, leaning on his cane. "As Preservation Committee secretary, I move that we update all historical documentation at the Starlight Music Hall to reflect these findings. The official story has controlled our community's relationship with this building and Aria's legacy for too long."

Murmurs of agreement spread through the audience.

Ezra stepped away from the podium, signaling the formal presentation's conclusion. "The floor is now open for questions and reflections. Afterward, copies of key evidence will be available to committee members and other appropriate parties."

As attendees began quietly discussing what they'd heard, Ezra made his way to where Mrs. Abbott and Maxwell sat, still connected by their clasped hands.

"Are you all right?" he asked Mrs. Abbott quietly.

She looked up, her eyes reflecting both grief and something that might have been relief. "Thirty years of uncertainty hasn't prepared me for this moment." Her gaze shifted to Maxwell. "But perhaps truth, however painful, provides a foundation neither of us has had since she disappeared."

"The message," Maxwell said, his voice barely audible. "The reference to waters transforming but not disappearing. Do you think⁠—"

"I think," Mrs. Abbott interrupted gently, "that tonight we honor what we know for certain. Tomorrow, we can explore what remains possible."

Dahlia caught Ezra's eye over Mrs. Abbott's head, giving him a slight nod of approval. The ritual of remembrance she understood so well was unfolding as it should—acknowledgment preceding possibility, truth before hope.

As Aria's voice played again through the vintage equipment, filling the Starlight Music Hall with its haunting presence, Ezra surveyed what they had accomplished. Not closure, certainly—too many questions remained for that. But perhaps something equally valuable: the breaking of a false narrative that had imprisoned an entire community in patterns of silence and separation.

The vinyl memorial had become exactly what he'd hoped—not just remembrance, but reclamation of a truth too long pressed into the margins.

Morning sunlight streamed through the freshly repaired skylight in Ezra's office above Hargrove's Hardware. Six weeks had passed since the Vinyl Memorial at the Starlight Music Hall, and spring had fully surrendered to summer in Covenridge. The cork board that once displayed his dual investigations—legitimate cases alongside The Starlight Wanderers mystery—had been reorganized into a single integrated display. Photos, notes, and connection strings now represented his new professional focus: cold cases with cultural and artistic dimensions.

The phone rang, interrupting his contemplation of the board.

"Patel Investigations," he answered, settling into his desk chair.

"Mr. Patel, this is Detective Laura Jenkins with the County Sheriff's Office." Her voice carried the formal tone of official business. "I'm calling regarding the Aria Abbott Richards case."

"Yes, Detective. Has there been a development?"

"The prosecutor's office has authorized a full reinvestigation based on the evidence you submitted. They're particularly interested in the financial transactions between Victor Strand's shell company and former Coroner Merrick."

Ezra leaned forward, reaching for his notebook. "That's significant progress."

"We'd like you to come in tomorrow at 10:00 am to provide a formal statement. We're also scheduling interviews with Maxwell Richards and Mrs. Abbott."

"I'll be there," Ezra promised. "Have you been able to locate Strand?"

"His attorneys have arranged for him to be deposed in Seattle next week. Meridian Records' parent company has issued a statement distancing themselves from 'historical management decisions made by former executives.'" The detective's tone suggested what she thought of this corporate maneuver.

"Convenient timing."

"Indeed. They're already positioning for damage control." A rustling of papers came through the line. "One more thing—we've received an inquiry from an attorney in Santa Fe representing the author published under the name 'A.' They've requested information about our investigation."

Ezra's pulse quickened. "Did they provide any details about their client?"

"Only that the author has been following media coverage of the case reopening and has 'relevant information' that might assist our investigation."

"That's... interesting."

"I thought you'd think so." Detective Jenkins paused. "Off the record, Mr. Patel—what you've done for this community is remarkable. Cases like this don't typically get a second chance after three decades."

"I had considerable help," Ezra replied. "The truth was preserved by many people over many years."

After ending the call, Ezra sat back, processing this new development. An attorney from Santa Fe representing "A"—the author of "River Crossings" that both Mrs. Abbott and Maxwell had received. The implications were enormous.

His office door opened as Harold Hargrove entered without knocking, carrying a steaming mug.

"Thought you could use coffee," Hargrove said, placing the mug on Ezra's desk. "Saw you burning the midnight oil again yesterday."

"Thanks." Ezra accepted the unexpected gesture of neighborliness. "New case research."

Hargrove glanced at the cork board, now featuring photographs and notes about a painter who had disappeared from a nearby artist colony in 1975. "More cold cases, I see. Getting quite a reputation for those."

"They suit my methods," Ezra replied. "And apparently Covenridge has no shortage of artistic mysteries."

Hargrove nodded, his usual gruffness softening. "Town notices what you've done. Not just with the Aria case. Three missing persons found in two months. That insurance fraud exposed for the Parker family. The memorabilia authentication for Calvert." He gestured toward the repaired ceiling. "Roof's holding up well, by the way."

"It is. No more strategically placed buckets required."

Hargrove lingered, uncharacteristically hesitant. "Committee meeting at the Starlight Hall tonight. Seven o'clock. They're voting on permanent exhibit space for the evidence you assembled. Thought you might want to be there."

"I'll try to make it."

After Hargrove left, Ezra sipped the surprisingly good coffee while contemplating how much had changed. The hardware store owner who had once scoffed at the idea of a PI in Covenridge now brought him coffee and meeting invitations. The skepticism that had initially greeted his return had transformed into something approaching respect.

His cell phone vibrated with a text message from Mrs. Abbott: "New section completed. Stop by if you'd like to see it."

Ezra checked his watch—11:30 am. He had time before his afternoon client meeting to visit Resonant Pages and see what Mrs. Abbott had been working on.

---

The bookstore's transformation was immediately apparent when Ezra entered. Where plywood had once covered a brick-shattered window, newly installed glass now allowed sunlight to illuminate what had previously been the mystery section. The space had been completely reorganized—shelves rearranged to create an open area where glass display cases now stood in a semicircle.

Mrs. Abbott emerged from between the shelves, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a loose bun. She wore a deep purple blouse over black slacks—more colorful than her previous subdued attire.

"Right on time," she greeted him. "What do you think?"

"It's remarkable," Ezra replied, approaching the display cases. "The Covenridge Music Archive?"

"Official name as of last week," Mrs. Abbott confirmed. "The town council approved funding for proper archival cases and preservation materials."

The displays contained carefully arranged artifacts: original vinyl pressings of The Starlight Wanderers' albums, handwritten lyrics, vintage concert posters, and photographs of performances at the Starlight Music Hall. Each item featured a detailed description card explaining its significance.

"This is much more than I expected," Ezra said, examining a display of various dead wax messages photographed through a microscope.

"The story deserved proper telling," Mrs. Abbott replied. "Not hidden in my private archive or fragmented across different pressings, but presented comprehensively for anyone interested in understanding what happened."

A central display contained copies of the evidence Ezra had assembled—the financial records showing payments to Coroner Merrick, transcripts from the unmastered tapes, and a timeline of events leading to Aria's disappearance. The final panel stated clearly: "Investigation reopened 2023, suicide ruling challenged based on new evidence."

"You've put your background as a music chronicler to good use," Ezra observed.

"Isadora's skills were never completely abandoned, just redirected." She adjusted the lighting above one display case. "I've had to reconsider many patterns I maintained for decades—not just my bookstore's organization but my entire relationship with the past."

"How's Maxwell handling the case reopening?"

Mrs. Abbott's expression softened slightly. "Better than one might expect. He's given three formal statements to investigators and provided access to his property for forensic examination of the path to Singer's Fall."

"And your personal reconnection? If I may ask."

She moved to a nearby shelf, straightening books that needed no adjustment—a habitual gesture when conversations approached emotional territory.

"Thirty years of separation can't be bridged in six weeks," she said carefully. "But we've had coffee twice. Discussed memories of Aria that each of us preserved differently. Small steps."

"That's significant progress."

"It is." She turned back to him. "He mentioned you've been consulting with him about the recording equipment at the radio station."

"He's setting up a program for young musicians," Ezra confirmed. "Teaching recording techniques, mentoring young vocalists. I've been helping with the organizational structure."

Mrs. Abbott's smile held genuine warmth. "Redemption comes in unexpected forms. Speaking of which—" she reached beneath the counter and produced a manila envelope, "these arrived yesterday. Formal letters from Meridian Records' parent company acknowledging 'historical contractual irregularities' and offering a settlement regarding catalog rights."

Ezra accepted the envelope. "They're trying to get ahead of potential litigation."

"Precisely. Their attorneys have suggested negotiations rather than court proceedings." She shrugged lightly. "I'm considering the offer, though Maxwell believes we should press for full rights reversion."

"What do you want?"

"I want my daughter's voice to be heard on her own terms," Mrs. Abbott replied without hesitation. "Whether that requires legal battles or strategic settlement depends on which approach better serves that goal."

The bell above the door chimed as a customer entered—a young woman with a backpack who headed directly for the new music archive displays.

"Your first archive visitor?" Ezra asked quietly.

"One of many in the past week. Word is spreading." Mrs. Abbott's expression turned reflective. "Every person who learns the true story challenges the power of those who suppressed it. That matters more than any settlement figure."

"I received a call from Detective Jenkins this morning," Ezra said, keeping his voice low. "An attorney in Santa Fe representing the author 'A' has contacted the investigation team."

Mrs. Abbott went completely still. "Santa Fe," she repeated softly.

"They said the author has been following media coverage and has information relevant to the case."

Her hand drifted to the moonstone ring she always wore, fingers tracing its contours in what Ezra now recognized as a self-soothing gesture.

"What do you think that means?" she asked, her composure momentarily fractured.

"I think it means the truth continues emerging, in ways we might not have anticipated."

She nodded slowly. "After thirty years of uncertainty, I've learned to approach hope with caution. But this..." Her voice trailed off.

"One step at a time," Ezra suggested gently.

"Yes." She visibly gathered herself. "One properly documented step at a time."

---

The community radio station hummed with unusual activity for a weekday afternoon. Through the glass partition separating the control room from the studio, Ezra could see Maxwell instructing three teenagers in the proper use of a mixing board. The silver-haired producer moved with animated precision, his explanations punctuated by demonstrations of fader adjustments and equalization techniques.

Jenna waved Ezra into the control room, keeping her voice low to avoid disrupting the session.

"He's in his element," she observed, nodding toward Maxwell. "Been here three times a week since the program started. Kids actually line up for lessons now."

"Impressive turnaround," Ezra replied, watching as Maxwell guided a young girl's hands on the controls. "How's he handling the attention?"

"Better than any of us expected. Turns out technical expertise makes an excellent bridge for human connection." Jenna adjusted a dial on her board. "The reopened investigation has been harder. Keeps having to relive his failures during interviews."

"Necessary part of the process."

"Marcus has been helping him prepare for each session," Jenna said, referencing the station's engineer. "Recording practice statements, analyzing potential weaknesses in his testimony. Technical approach to an emotional challenge."

Through the glass, Maxwell demonstrated a complex adjustment to the soundboard, his face animated with an enthusiasm Ezra had never seen before. The teenagers watched with rapt attention, one taking careful notes.

"The Tuesday evening program is already gaining listeners," Jenna continued. "Young musicians performing with professional guidance. We're calling it 'New Voices.'"

"Good name," Ezra noted.

"Dahlia suggested it. Less direct than 'Aria's Voice,' but the connection is understood locally." Jenna glanced at her watch. "They're wrapping up soon. Maxwell mentioned he wanted to speak with you."

As if on cue, Maxwell concluded the lesson, sending the teenagers off with specific practice assignments. When he entered the control room, his expression shifted from mentor to something more guarded.

"Ezra," he acknowledged. "Thanks for coming by."

"Jenna says the program's going well," Ezra replied.

"Better than expected." Maxwell gestured toward the exit. "Let's talk outside."

The summer air felt warm after the air-conditioned studio. Maxwell led the way to a small courtyard behind the station, where a weathered picnic table stood beneath a maple tree. He settled onto the bench, his body language suggesting the conversation to come required neutral territory.

"Detective Jenkins contacted me about the Santa Fe attorney," Maxwell said without preamble.

"Me too," Ezra confirmed, taking the bench opposite him. "What do you make of it?"

"I don't know." Maxwell's hands worked restlessly on the tabletop. "After thirty years of certainty about my failures, the possibility that Aria might be..." He couldn't complete the sentence.

"It's just an attorney making contact at this point," Ezra cautioned. "We shouldn't get ahead of the evidence."

"You sound like a proper investigator," Maxwell said with a hint of his old sharpness. "While I'm sitting here contemplating a miracle I don't deserve."

"Deserving has nothing to do with truth," Ezra replied. "We follow where the evidence leads, regardless of what we think we've earned."

Maxwell studied him for a long moment. "You've changed since you first showed up at my cottage."

"The investigation changed me," Ezra acknowledged. "As it's changed you, I think."

"True enough." Maxwell reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small recorder. "I've been documenting everything—my false testimony, the pressure from Strand, what I actually heard that day. Insurance, in case anything happens to me before the investigation concludes."

"A good precaution," Ezra agreed. "Have you shared this with Mrs. Abbott?"

"Not yet." Maxwell returned the recorder to his pocket. "We're proceeding carefully. Thirty years of avoidance creates habits that don't break easily."

"But they are breaking."

"Yes." Maxwell looked toward the station, where the young musicians could be seen gathering their belongings. "Teaching these kids—it's the first thing I've done in decades that feels like proper atonement. Not hiding, not drinking, but actually contributing something meaningful."

"Technical expertise was never your weakness," Ezra observed.

"No. My weaknesses were far more fundamental." Maxwell rose from the bench. "I should get back. Just wanted you to know about the recordings. In case they're needed."

As Maxwell walked away, Ezra noticed how his characteristic stoop had diminished. The weight of secrets had literally been pressing him down for decades, and now, unburdened, he moved with greater ease through the world.

---

Brewedly Awakened buzzed with activity as Ezra pushed through the door. Every table was occupied, and a small stage had been erected in the corner where the community bulletin board usually stood. Young women with instrument cases moved purposefully through the crowd, setting up microphones and checking sound levels.

Dahlia spotted him from behind the counter, gesturing him forward.

"Perfect timing," she called over the noise. "First planning meeting for 'Aria's Voice' about to start."

"Looks more like the event itself," Ezra replied, navigating between tables.

"Unexpected enthusiasm," Dahlia explained. "What started as a planning committee turned into an impromptu showcase when people heard what we were organizing."

She handed him a freshly printed flyer. The design featured a stylized vinyl record with sound waves emanating from its center. "Aria's Voice: Celebrating Female Musicians of the Valley. First Annual Showcase—August 15th."

"Aria's birthday," Ezra noted.

"Seemed appropriate." Dahlia's gaze traveled over the crowd. "Every one of these young women has listened to those demo tapes now. Maxwell's been working with several of them at the station. Musical lineage continuing despite everything Strand did to suppress it."

The activity in the coffee shop had the feeling of something organic and self-sustaining—not a carefully orchestrated event but a community response emerging naturally. Ezra recognized faces from the Vinyl Memorial, now engaged in supporting a new generation of musicians.

"Mrs. Abbott is handling the historical context portion," Dahlia continued. "A brief presentation about Aria's approach to composition and performance. Maxwell's providing technical support but staying behind the scenes."

"Wise approach."

"They're finding their way forward," Dahlia agreed. "Not erasing the past but building something new that honors it properly." She studied him over the rim of a coffee mug. "Much like what you're doing professionally."

"Cold cases and artistic mysteries," Ezra acknowledged. "Turns out my methods are well-suited to questions others have abandoned."

"This town has plenty of those." Dahlia glanced toward the door as Mrs. Abbott entered, carrying a portfolio case. "Ah, here comes our historical consultant now."

Mrs. Abbott made her way through the crowd, nodding to familiar faces. When she reached the counter, she placed her portfolio beside Ezra.

"The young lady who called from Seattle confirmed," she told Dahlia. "Flying in next week to perform at the showcase. Says she's been studying Aria's vocal techniques from the archived recordings."

"Perfect," Dahlia replied. "That makes fifteen performers."

"Has Maxwell finished restoring the ribbon microphone?" Mrs. Abbott asked, her tone casually professional as if discussing a colleague rather than her daughter's father.

"Yesterday," Dahlia confirmed. "Says it's the same model Aria used during her final performance."

Mrs. Abbott nodded, satisfaction evident in her expression. "Authenticity matters." She turned to Ezra. "Detective Jenkins called. They've scheduled my formal statement for tomorrow at 11:30 am."

"After mine," Ezra noted. "Are you prepared?"

"As one can be for such things." She opened her portfolio, revealing meticulously organized notes. "I've documented everything chronologically. The campsite near Singer's Fall, the suspiciously cleaned area the next day, the poetry collection from 'A'—everything."

A young woman approached, violin case in hand. "Mrs. Abbott? We're ready for your guidance on the performance sequence."

"Of course." Mrs. Abbott gathered her materials. "Excuse me, duty calls."

As she moved toward the stage area, Dahlia leaned closer to Ezra. "She's thriving in this new role. The bookstore owner and the music chronicler finally integrated rather than compartmentalized."

"Breaking patterns," Ezra observed.

"Exactly." Dahlia wiped the counter absently. "Speaking of which, I hear you've formally changed your business focus."

"Word travels."

"Always has in Covenridge." She smiled. "Your new business cards arrived at the post office this morning. Mabel couldn't help but notice the updated specialty listed beneath your name."

Ezra reached into his jacket pocket and produced one of the cards. The simple black lettering now read: "Patel Investigations: Cold Cases · Cultural & Artistic Mysteries · Historical Research."

"Suits you," Dahlia observed. "Finding what others have overlooked or abandoned."

"Like dead wax messages," Ezra replied.

"Precisely. The information hidden in margins often reveals more than what's proclaimed in official spaces." She handed him a coffee—"Maxwell's Melody," without him having to ask. "Have you heard about the attorney from Santa Fe?"

"News really does travel fast in this town."

"Audio day," Dahlia explained. "Sound's carrying particularly well through the valley. Sheriff took the call in his office, but half the town knew about it by lunchtime."

The coffee shop's ambient noise suddenly diminished as a young woman stepped up to the microphone on the makeshift stage. Her voice, strong and clear, filled the space with the opening lines of "River's Memory"—the same song Aria had performed during her final concert at the Starlight Music Hall.

Ezra watched as Mrs. Abbott stood very still near the edge of the gathering, her eyes closed, listening with complete attention. Nearby, several teenagers waited their turn, instruments ready, faces showing both nervousness and determination.

"Full circle," Dahlia murmured beside him.

"Not quite," Ezra replied. "More like a groove continuing. The needle keeps tracking, revealing new information with each revolution."

Dahlia's smile widened. "You've become quite the vinyl philosopher, Mr. Patel."

"I've learned from the best."

As the young singer's voice filled Dahlia's coffee shop, Ezra felt the culmination of patterns broken and reformed. His investigation into Aria's disappearance had transformed not just his understanding of Covenridge but his professional identity.

In a town where sound found home, he had learned to listen not just to what was proclaimed but to what was whispered in margins, preserved in grooves, and hidden in silence. The dead wax—that space others overlooked—had proven to contain the most significant truths of all.

The case wasn't fully resolved—might never be completely concluded—but the patterns of silence and separation that had imprisoned an entire community had been irrevocably broken. And in their place, new connections formed, tracing a path toward whatever truth remained to be discovered.