Chapter 3 - A Little Boy and a Blue Wall
Z
The Rourke estate stood on a hill overlooking the harbor, behind iron gates and stone walls topped with security cameras.
Marin arrived at eight fifty-seven the following morning, carrying her paint samples and a thermos of coffee.
A guard checked her identification twice.
Another escorted her through a marble foyer large enough to swallow the apartment building where she lived.
She found Noah sitting at the bottom of a staircase.
He wore gray sweatpants and a dinosaur sweatshirt. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and one sock had slipped halfway off his foot.
When he saw her, he stood.
“Good morning,” Marin said.
Noah stared at her bandaged wrist.
“It’s okay. The paint didn't win.”
He glanced toward the kitchen, then back at her.
Marin crouched several feet away.
“Your dad says you might let me paint your room.”
Noah’s fingers curled around the staircase railing.
“I brought blue, green, and yellow. You can pick.”
She arranged the samples on the floor.
He didn't move.
“Or you can pick none. It's your room.”
After a long moment, Noah came down two steps and pointed at the blue.
“Excellent choice.”
He took the sample from her hand and held it against his sweatshirt.
Gideon watched from the doorway.
For two years, specialists had visited the estate with expensive equipment and careful explanations. They had asked Noah to identify pictures, repeat sounds, and answer questions.
Marin had done none of those things.
She had offered him a choice.
By ten, Noah was sitting beside her, watching her prepare the wall.
By eleven, he was handing her brushes.
At noon, he drew a small yellow sun in the corner of a sheet of paper.
Marin smiled. “You could be an artist.”
Noah shook his head, then pointed at her.
“You think I’m the artist?”
He nodded.
She laughed.
The sound carried into the hallway, where Gideon stood unnoticed.
Later, Marin discovered a locked cabinet in Noah’s room. Inside lay dozens of toys, untouched birthday presents, and a framed photograph of a smiling woman with Noah as a toddler.
“His mother,” Gideon said behind her.
Marin turned.
“Where is she?”
“Dead.”
The word landed like a door slamming.
Gideon took the photograph and set it facedown.
“After she died, Noah stopped speaking. The doctors called it trauma.”
“Was she ill?”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“She died in a car accident. I wasn't there.”
Marin studied him.
“Did Noah see it happen?”
Gideon didn't answer immediately.
“Yes.”
She looked at the child sitting on the floor, carefully arranging paintbrushes by size.
“Then perhaps he doesn't need another person telling him to speak,” she said softly. “Perhaps he needs to know that when he does, someone will listen.”
May you like
Gideon looked toward his son.
For the first time in two years, he allowed himself to imagine that silence might not be permanent.
