Chapter 4 - THE HOUSE THAT STILL HELD HER VOICE
“The house where my mother recorded her music belongs to Richard Bellamy?”
Maya stared at Thomas.
He shook his head.
“Not anymore.”
“Then who owns it?”
Thomas studied the handwritten address.
“The property was sold years ago.”
Maya felt the old anger returning.
“You keep knowing things you don't tell me.”
“Because I don't know which memories are reliable after twenty years.”
“Then tell me what you remember, and let me decide.”
Thomas accepted that.
They stood beside the grand piano while the stage technician carefully replaced its music rack.
Claire held Elena's handwritten page inside a clear protective sleeve.
The address was on West Cary Street, not far from the part of Richmond where Maya had grown up.
Thomas explained that Elena had rented rehearsal space there during the early recording sessions.
The building had belonged to an elderly piano technician named Walter Price.
“He let young musicians practice upstairs,” Thomas said. “Sometimes he helped record demonstrations.”
“Did Bellamy use the studio?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
Thomas nodded.
Maya looked toward the document.
“Then somebody must know what happened.”
Claire checked her watch.
“We have a production rehearsal tomorrow morning. I can arrange transportation to Richmond today.”
Maya hesitated.
She didn't want favors from a television show that had planned to turn her homelessness into a dramatic introduction.
Claire seemed to understand.
“This isn't a publicity trip. No cameras. No release forms.”
“Why would you help me?”
“Because the way we handled your audition was wrong.”
“That doesn't answer everything.”
Claire gave a tired smile.
“No. But it's the honest part.”
Three hours later, Maya sat in the back seat of a rental car beside Thomas.
Claire drove.
Maya kept Elena's music in her lap.
She hadn't allowed the paper out of her sight.
The countryside passed outside.
For years, Maya had avoided certain streets in Richmond because they reminded her of the childhood she'd lost.
Now she was returning to a place she hadn't known existed.
Thomas broke the silence.
“Your mother was stubborn.”
Maya looked toward him.
“That sounds right.”
“She once argued with a conductor for forty minutes because he wanted to change the tempo of her composition.”
“Did she win?”
“Completely.”
Despite herself, Maya smiled.
Thomas looked relieved.
Then he said, “She also spoke about you constantly.”
Maya turned toward the window.
She hadn't expected those words to hurt.
“What did she say?”
“That you could hear mistakes in music before you could read the notes.”
Maya remembered sitting on the floor while Elena practiced.
Whenever her mother made a wrong turn in a melody, Maya would lift one finger.
“Again,” she would demand.
Her mother would laugh.
The memory was beautiful.
And unbearable.
They reached West Cary Street late that afternoon.
The old house had been converted into a neighborhood arts center.
A painted sign read:
PRICE HOUSE COMMUNITY MUSIC PROJECT
Children's drawings covered the front windows.
Inside, inexpensive keyboards stood against one wall.
A woman with silver hair was helping a boy tune a guitar.
She looked up as they entered.
“Can I help you?”
Thomas stopped.
“Margaret?”
The woman stared.
Then her expression softened.
“Thomas Greene?”
They embraced awkwardly.
Margaret Price was Walter Price's daughter.
She had inherited the building after her father's death.
When Thomas mentioned Elena Santos, Margaret's smile disappeared.
“Oh,” she said.
“That's a name I haven't heard in a long time.”
Maya stepped forward.
“I'm her daughter.”
Margaret studied her face.
Then lifted one hand to her mouth.
“You have Elena's eyes.”
Maya had heard those words before.
But Margaret said them as though they were both a gift and an apology.
“Did you know my mother?”
“I knew her when she was recording here.”
“Do you have any of her music?”
Margaret hesitated.
“Some old materials are still stored upstairs.”
Maya looked at the staircase.
“Could I see them?”
Margaret nodded.
The upstairs room smelled of cardboard and furniture polish.
Old recording equipment sat beneath canvas covers.
Shelves held labeled boxes of sheet music.
A brown upright piano stood near the window.
Maya stopped in the doorway.
The instrument looked almost exactly like the one from her childhood.
Margaret noticed.
“Your mother played that one.”
Maya approached.
The bench was scratched.
One key had turned slightly yellow.
She touched it.
A single note filled the room.
Not perfect.
Not rich.
But familiar.
Margaret opened a cabinet.
“Dad kept everything. He believed musicians threw away too much of themselves.”
Inside were labeled recording reels, notebooks, receipts, and photographs.
Thomas examined the labels.
“Bellamy sessions. Summer workshops. Elena's demonstrations.”
Maya reached for a small box.
A handwritten label read:
E. Santos — Personal.
Her chest tightened.
Inside lay an old piano-tuning receipt.
Two photographs.
A folded recital program.
And a child's drawing.
A yellow house.
A red car.
Three smiling stick figures holding hands.
Across the top, in uneven letters, someone had written:
ME AND MOM AND DAD.
Maya sat down.
She remembered making it.
She had been six.
Her father had insisted she draw him taller.
She had drawn him with enormous shoes instead.
Margaret knelt beside her.
“Your mother kept that here while she worked. She said it helped her remember why she was trying so hard.”
Maya pressed the paper against her chest.
For years, everything from her childhood seemed to have vanished into government files and forgotten boxes.
Here was proof that she had once belonged somewhere.
Thomas quietly examined the remaining materials.
Then he stopped.
“Margaret, where are the original tapes?”
She looked confused.
“What original tapes?”
“The demonstration recordings. Elena made several versions.”
Margaret checked the cabinet.
“They should be here.”
But the labeled shelf was empty.
She frowned.
“That's strange.”
Claire stepped closer.
“Were they moved?”
Margaret shook her head.
“I cataloged everything myself when we renovated.”
Then she remembered.
“A man came last spring asking about old Bellamy recordings.”
Thomas turned.
“What man?”
“He said he represented the publisher.”
“Did you give him anything?”
“No. I told him the archive wasn't for sale.”
Margaret hesitated.
“But someone broke into the storage room two weeks later.”
Maya stared.
“Did they take the tapes?”
“Nothing valuable seemed missing at the time.”
Thomas looked toward the empty shelf.
“Perhaps they knew exactly what they wanted.”
Margaret sat heavily on a chair.
“I should have checked more carefully.”
Claire examined the cabinet.
“Was there a police report?”
“Yes.”
“Can we see it?”
Margaret nodded.
While she went downstairs, Maya studied her childhood drawing.
Something small was attached to the back.
A piece of blue paper.
She turned it over.
A strip of musical notation had been taped beneath the cardboard backing.
Six notes.
The same six notes from her mother's unfinished composition.
But this time there were handwritten words beneath them.
Play it backward only when you need the truth.
Maya looked at Thomas.
“Can musical notes mean something else?”
“Sometimes. Composers use musical cryptograms or coded patterns.”
“Could my mother have done that?”
Thomas examined the strip.
“She was certainly capable of it.”
He sat at the old piano.
Slowly, he played the six notes in reverse order.
Nothing obvious happened.
Then Maya noticed a penciled marking beneath the staff.
Not musical terminology.
Numbers.
Four pairs.
Thomas leaned closer.
“These aren't fingerings.”
Maya read them aloud.
“Two, seven. One, four. Three, six. Two, one.”
Margaret returned carrying the police report.
When she heard the numbers, she stopped.
“What did you just say?”
Maya repeated them.
Margaret hurried to an old filing cabinet.
She opened a drawer and searched through a stack of yellow index cards.
Finally, she pulled one free.
Her hand shook.
“My father used to label his recording reels with paired numbers.”
She held up the card.
At the top was a matching sequence.
27–14–36–21.
Beneath it, in Walter Price's handwriting, was a title.
ELENA SANTOS — FINAL SESSION — TWO MASTERS.
Margaret looked toward the empty recording shelf.
“One master was kept here.”
Maya swallowed.
“And the other?”
Margaret's face changed.
“My father gave it to your mother.”
Thomas closed his eyes.
Then Margaret pointed to another line on the card.
A delivery instruction.
Personal effects retained for M. Santos.
She looked at Maya.
“Your grandmother was supposed to keep it until you turned eighteen.”
Maya stood.
“My grandmother died when I was fifteen.”
Margaret whispered, “Then someone else may have received it.”
At the bottom of the card was a signature acknowledging the transfer of Elena's belongings.
Maya recognized the name.
May you like
CAROLINE VOSS.
The foster-care caseworker who had signed Maya's final placement papers.
