The Devil Knows My Name

At 2:17 a.m., Gabriel Moreau was still awake. The apartment was silent, save for the rain tapping against the windows and the occasional groan of the old refrigerator in the kitchen. A single lamp illuminated the table where Gabriel sat hunched over his laptop, his fingers resting motionless on the keyboard. On the screen was a number. 44 He refreshed the page. 44 He closed the tab, opened it again, and refreshed. 44 Gabriel stared at the screen until the numbers began to blur. Then he leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose. Seven years. Seven years of writing songs in notebooks, recording vocals beneath blankets to muffle the sound, and spending money he didn’t have on equipment he could barely afford. Seven years of telling people that he was going to make it. And forty-four people had listened. He couldn’t even be certain they had listened to the whole song. He rubbed his eyes and glanced toward the bedroom. The door was closed. Amara was asleep, or pretending to be. Lately, he had become unable to tell the difference. On the table beside his laptop lay an envelope containing their electricity bill. It had been there for six days. He had moved it twice. He had not opened it. Gabriel returned his attention to the screen. Beneath the song, three comments waited for him. The first was from a friend who had written, This is fire. The second read, Nice voice. The third contained a laughing emoji. He stared at the third comment for longer than he should have. Then he closed the page. His phone vibrated. Gabriel glanced at it, expecting another notification about an unpaid bill. Instead, an unknown number appeared on the screen. He let it ring. The sound seemed unusually loud in the empty kitchen. When the ringing stopped, he turned the phone facedown and returned to his laptop. A few seconds later, it vibrated again. The same number. He frowned. Nobody called him at this hour. The people who knew him were either asleep or had learned not to disturb him when he was working. He answered. “Hello?” For a moment, there was nothing. Then came a faint, steady crackle. “Gabriel Moreau?” The voice was male. Calm. Neither particularly deep nor particularly distinctive. The kind of voice a person might hear once and struggle to describe afterward. “Who’s this?” A pause. “Have I caught you at a bad time?” Gabriel glanced at the clock. “It’s two in the morning.” “Yes,” the man replied. “I suppose it is.” There was something about the answer that irritated him. “What do you want?” “I would like to speak with you about your music.” Gabriel sat straighter. “If you’re selling promotion, I’m not interested.” “I’m not selling anything.” “Then you’ve got the wrong number.” He moved the phone away from his ear. “Wait.” Gabriel stopped. The man’s voice had not grown louder. He had not sounded angry or impatient. Yet something in that single word made Gabriel hold the phone against his ear again. “I listened to your latest song,” the man said. Gabriel looked at his laptop. “When?” “Recently.” “And?” Another pause. “You have a particular way of writing about loneliness.” Gabriel said nothing. Most people who contacted him about his music wanted something. Money. A collaboration. A favor. Sometimes they wanted to tell him that he wasn’t good enough, as if he had somehow forgotten. He had never received a call like this. “What exactly are you trying to say?” “Only that I think you could go further than you have.” Gabriel almost laughed. “Everyone thinks that.” “Do they?” The question was quiet. Gabriel looked toward the bedroom door. “Listen, I don’t know who you are, and I’m tired. If you have something to say, say it.” “I believe you deserve a larger audience, Mr. Moreau.” For a moment, Gabriel forgot to be suspicious. It was a simple sentence. An ordinary sentence. Yet he felt it settle somewhere deep inside him, in a place he had spent years trying to convince himself no longer mattered. He swallowed. “And how exactly do you plan to give me one?” “That depends on you.” “On me?” “On whether you’re willing to consider an opportunity.” Gabriel looked down at his hands. There were small scars across his fingers from a summer job at a warehouse, a job he had quit after three weeks because he couldn’t bear the thought of spending the rest of his life doing something he hated. He had told Amara he would never give up on music. He had made that promise when they were younger, when the future still felt like a place they could reach by walking toward it. “What kind of opportunity?” he asked. “One that could change things.” “That’s vague.” “You’re right.” The man did not elaborate. Gabriel waited. Rain slid down the window beside him. A drop struck the metal frame with a sharp little tick. “Are you some kind of manager?” Gabriel asked. “No.” “A producer?” “No.” “Then what are you?” The silence that followed was long enough for Gabriel to wonder whether the call had disconnected. Then the man spoke. “Someone who believes your circumstances need not determine your future.” Gabriel lowered his eyes. He hated how much he wanted to believe him. “How did you get my number?” “Your contact information was available.” “Where?” “Online.” “That’s not an answer.” “No,” the man said. “It isn’t.” Gabriel pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen. He should have ended the call. Instead, he asked, “What do you want from me?” “Nothing tonight.” “Then why call?” “Because I wanted you to know that there are people who have heard your music.” Gabriel’s throat tightened. “People?” “Yes.” “How many?” The man did not answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost gentle. “More than you think.” The call ended. Gabriel remained motionless, the phone still pressed against his ear. He lowered it slowly. The screen displayed the duration of the call. Four minutes and twelve seconds. He checked the number, then searched for it online. Nothing useful appeared. He tried again with the country code. Still nothing. He opened his recent calls and considered blocking it. Instead, he locked his phone. He told himself that it had been a harmless conversation with a stranger who had somehow found his music. He told himself that there was no reason to think about it again. Then he noticed something. His laptop screen had gone dark. The computer had entered sleep mode, but the reflection in the black screen showed the kitchen behind him: the lamp, the window, the narrow doorway leading to the hall. And, for one brief moment, a shape that seemed to stand in the hallway. Gabriel turned. The hallway was empty. He stared into the darkness. Nothing moved. After a few seconds, he let out a slow breath and rubbed his face. He had barely slept in two days. He had been staring at screens for hours. His eyes were tired. That was all. He closed the laptop and went to bed. Amara stirred when he slipped beneath the covers. “You’re late,” she murmured. “Couldn’t sleep.” She shifted closer to him. “Did something happen?” He looked at the ceiling. “No.” She was quiet for a moment. “Are you sure?” Gabriel turned toward her. In the faint light coming through the curtains, he could make out the tired lines around her eyes. He thought about the phone call. About the stranger’s voice. About the strange certainty with which he had spoken. “It’s nothing,” Gabriel said. Amara watched him for another second before closing her eyes. He lay awake long after she had fallen asleep. At some point, the rain stopped. The silence that followed seemed heavier than the noise had been. By morning, Gabriel had almost convinced himself that the call had meant nothing. He made coffee. He showered. He helped Amara find the keys she had misplaced beneath a pile of laundry. They argued briefly about groceries, apologized almost immediately, and laughed when Gabriel accidentally spilled coffee across the kitchen counter. For a little while, everything felt ordinary. It was almost enough to make him forget the night before. Almost. At 10:36 a.m., his phone vibrated. He was sitting at the kitchen table while Amara prepared breakfast. A notification from his music platform appeared on the screen. Your song is gaining attention. Gabriel frowned. He opened the application. His latest release had received forty-four views when he checked it the night before. Now it had thousands. He refreshed the page. The number increased. He stared at it, waiting for the screen to correct itself. It didn’t. “Amara.” Something in his voice made her turn. “What?” “Come here.” She walked over, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Gabriel showed her the screen. For a moment, she simply stared. Then her face brightened. “Gabriel!” He looked at her. She was smiling at him the way she used to when they were younger, when she could imagine their future without having to calculate its cost. “Oh my God. Look at this!” She wrapped her arms around him. He laughed, surprised by the sound of it. “Maybe someone shared it.” “Someone definitely shared it.” “I haven’t posted anything.” “Then someone else did!” She pulled back and looked at the screen again. “See? I told you.” Gabriel smiled. He wanted to believe her explanation. He wanted to believe that this was the beginning of everything he had worked for. But as he scrolled through the statistics, something caught his attention. The new listeners had appeared within a remarkably short period. The activity came from different accounts, many of which had no visible history. He refreshed the page. More views. More comments. More strangers asking who he was. His phone vibrated again. An email had arrived. There was no subject line. The sender’s name consisted of a single initial. Gabriel opened it. The message contained only one sentence. I told you there were people listening. He stopped breathing for a moment. Amara was still talking, her excitement filling the kitchen. “Gabriel? What is it?” He closed the email. “Nothing.” She studied him. “Why do you keep saying that?” He looked at her, then at the screen. He had no answer he was willing to give. At 6:42 p.m., someone knocked on their door. Gabriel was in the kitchen. Amara was folding laundry in the living room. Neither of them was expecting visitors. The knock came again. Three times, evenly spaced. Gabriel wiped his hands on a dish towel and crossed the apartment. When he opened the door, a man in a dark suit stood in the corridor. He was neither particularly tall nor particularly imposing. His clothes were immaculate, his expression neutral. He carried a black leather folder beneath one arm. “Gabriel Moreau?” “Yes.” The man glanced at the folder. “Good evening. I have something for you.” “From whom?” The man did not answer immediately. He held out the folder. Gabriel did not take it. “I asked you a question.” “And I heard you.” The man’s expression remained unchanged. Behind him, the corridor stretched toward the stairwell. The building’s lights flickered once, then steadied. Gabriel looked at the folder. “What is it?” “An invitation.” “To what?” “A meeting.” “With whom?” The man looked directly at him. “You’ll find the details inside.” Gabriel hesitated. Then he took the folder. It was heavier than he expected. Inside lay a cream-colored envelope bearing his full name. The handwriting was elegant and unfamiliar. He opened it. A single card rested inside. No logo. No company name. No signature. Only a time, an address, and a short message. Mr. Moreau, We would appreciate the opportunity to discuss your recent progress. Please arrive promptly. At the bottom, in smaller lettering, was a final sentence. We look forward to meeting you. Gabriel read it twice. “What is this place?” he asked. The man adjusted his cuff. “An office.” “Whose office?” “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.” “Then why should I go?” For the first time, the man seemed to consider the question. “That,” he said, “is entirely up to you.” He stepped back. Gabriel glanced down at the invitation again. When he looked up, the man was already walking toward the stairwell. “Wait.” The man stopped. “How did you find me?” The man turned his head slightly. “Your address was provided.” “By whom?” There was a pause. Then the man gave a polite nod. “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Moreau.” He descended the stairs. Gabriel remained in the doorway until he could no longer hear his footsteps. When he finally closed the door, Amara was standing behind him. “What was that?” He handed her the invitation. She read it slowly. “Who sent this?” “I don’t know.” “Is this about your music?” “Probably.” She looked at him. “Probably?” Gabriel took the card from her and studied it again. The paper was thick, expensive, and perfectly smooth. There was nothing unusual about it, nothing that could explain why he felt reluctant to touch it. He placed it on the kitchen table. Amara followed him. “Are you going to go?” “I haven’t decided.” She glanced toward the front door. “Gabriel, I don’t like this.” He looked at her. “Why?” “I don’t know.” She seemed frustrated by her own answer. “There’s just something about it.” Gabriel looked down at the invitation. He wanted to dismiss her concerns. He wanted to tell her that this was probably a routine meeting, that opportunities sometimes arrived in strange ways, that they could not afford to reject every possibility simply because it made them uncomfortable. But he remembered the call. The sudden attention. The message. I told you there were people listening. “Maybe it’s nothing,” he said. Amara folded her arms. “And maybe it isn’t.” Neither of them spoke for a while. Eventually, she returned to the laundry. Gabriel stayed at the table. He turned the invitation over. The back was blank. He turned it over again. The address was unfamiliar. He searched for it on his phone, but the results were inconclusive. The location existed, yet the information available about it was strangely limited. He tried searching for the building’s name. Nothing useful. He checked the time of the meeting. Tomorrow evening. He set the card down. Then he picked it up again. Outside, a car engine started. Gabriel glanced toward the window. A black limousine stood across the street. Its windows were dark. Its engine idled quietly beneath the streetlights. He watched it for several seconds. A pedestrian passed in front of the vehicle, briefly obscuring it from view. When the pedestrian moved on, the limousine was still there. Gabriel stepped closer to the window. He could not see inside. He waited. The vehicle remained motionless. “Gabriel?” Amara’s voice came from behind him. He turned. “What?” “Are you coming to eat?” He looked back toward the street. The limousine was gone. He stood perfectly still. Then he returned to the table, folded the invitation along its original crease, and slipped it into the black folder. “Yes,” he said. “I’m coming.” That night, Gabriel lay beside his wife and listened to the familiar sounds of their apartment. The refrigerator rattled. A pipe clicked somewhere behind the wall. A car passed outside. Ordinary sounds. Familiar sounds. He closed his eyes. For several minutes, he almost fell asleep. Then his phone vibrated on the bedside table. Gabriel opened his eyes. One new message. Unknown sender. He reached for the phone. The message contained no greeting, no explanation, and no signature. Only five words. Tomorrow will be different, Gabriel. He read it once. Then again. He sat up and checked the sender’s number. There was none. He opened the message details. Nothing. He searched his recent calls. The number from the previous night was still there. Gabriel looked at the new message. Then he looked at the bedroom door. It was closed. Amara was asleep beside him. The apartment was silent. He told himself there was a reasonable explanation. He told himself that someone had found his number online, that the attention surrounding his song had attracted a persistent stranger, that the limousine had been a coincidence. He told himself all of it. And for the first time in years, Gabriel Moreau wished that nobody knew his name.