Chapter Eight:Home

Elena's POV

Dad’s arm stayed locked around my shoulders. The warmth that had spread through my chest a second ago turned thin and cold.

“Why is Mr. Carter here?”

His voice was low, controlled, the way it got when something serious had walked into the room. I followed his gaze. The stranger from the plane,the one whose jacket had still been folded under my arm when the plane landed,was sliding into the back seat of a black car. The driver shut the door. The car pulled away from the curb without hurry.

I opened my mouth. Nothing useful came out.

“Do you know him?” Dad asked.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “He was on my flight. That’s all.”

Dad’s eyes stayed on the disappearing car for another second. Then he looked down at me. The hard line of his mouth softened, but only a little.

“Carter doesn’t take commercial flights for fun.”

Lucas stepped closer, suitcase handle gripped tight. “What are you talking about? Who’s Carter?”

“Business,” Dad said. “Not now.” He squeezed my good shoulder once. “Let’s get you home.”

The drive from the airport felt longer than it should have. California sunlight poured through the windows, bright and indifferent. I sat in the back with Samantha. Lucas rode shotgun, one arm draped over the seat, glancing back at me every few minutes like he was checking I hadn’t vanished. Dad drove the way he always did,steady, both hands on the wheel, eyes moving between the road and the rearview mirror.

My arm throbbed in time with the engine. The sling had shifted during the walk to the car. I tried to adjust it one-handed and mostly made it worse.

Samantha reached over without asking and fixed the strap. Her fingers were careful around the edge of the bandage.

“You look like you haven’t slept since New York,” she said under her breath.

“I slept on the plane.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I didn’t answer. Outside the window, familiar exits and billboards slid past. The closer we got to the house, the more my body remembered it,the curve of the street, the old oak that leaned over the driveway, the way the light hit the front windows in the late afternoon.

Home.

The word sat strangely in my chest.

Dad pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. For a second nobody moved. Then Lucas was out and opening my door before I could reach for the handle.

“Easy,” he said, like I was made of glass and also like he was daring me to argue about it.

I stepped out.

The air smelled like cut grass and someone’s barbecue two houses down. Ordinary. Safe. It made the last forty-eight hours feel even more unreal.

The front door was already unlocked. Dad had left it that way, the way he always did when he knew we were coming. Inside, the house smelled like coffee that had been sitting too long and the faint lemon cleaner Mom used to prefer. The entryway rug was the same worn blue one. The framed photo of the four of us at Lucas’s college graduation still hung slightly crooked on the wall.

I stood there with my suitcase at my feet and tried to remember how to breathe like a person who belonged somewhere.

Dad took the suitcase before I could reach for it with my good hand.

“The guest room’s ready. Or your old room. Your choice.”

“Old room,” I said.

He nodded like he’d already known.

Lucas carried the bags upstairs. Samantha followed with my smaller bag. I started after them and then stopped in the living room. The couch still had the same soft throw blanket folded over the arm. The remote was in its usual spot on the coffee table. Everything was exactly where it had been the last time I visited, as if the house had been holding its breath waiting for me to come back and fall apart in it.

Dad appeared beside me. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, close enough that I could feel the solid presence of him.

“Your arm,” he said eventually. “How bad is it?”

“Bullet grazed it. Doctors said it looks worse than it is.”

His jaw tightened. “Bullet?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He said it quietly. Not accusing. Just true. “But you will be. Starting with food and sleep and not pretending you’re okay when you’re not.”

I looked at the floor. The wood was scuffed near the coffee table from years of our feet.

“I don’t want to talk about him yet.”

“Then we won’t.” He touched the side of my face, light, careful of the exhaustion written there. “But you’re not alone in this house, Elena. Remember that.”

Upstairs, my childhood bedroom still had the pale yellow walls and the bookshelf that leaned a little to the left. Someone,Dad, probably,had put fresh sheets on the bed and left a glass of water on the nightstand. The window looked out over the backyard, the same swing set frame still standing even though none of us used it anymore.

Samantha was already unpacking the smaller bag, folding clothes with efficient hands.

“Sit,” she ordered, pointing at the bed. “You’re hovering like a ghost.”

I sat.

The mattress dipped under me, familiar.

Lucas stuck his head in. “Dad’s making eggs. Or attempting to. The kitchen smells like a war crime already.”

Despite everything, a small sound escaped me that might have been the beginning of a laugh.

Lucas’s eyes sharpened on my face, then softened.

“There she is. Thought we lost you for a second.”

“I’m here.”

“Good. Because if I have to eat Dad’s eggs alone I’m moving out.”

He disappeared down the hall. Samantha shook her head, smiling, and kept unpacking. She didn’t ask about the plane or the stranger or Damien. She just worked around my limited mobility, hanging things, setting the toiletries in the bathroom, making the space mine again without making a production of it.

When she finished she sat beside me on the bed. The mattress creaked.

“Your face looks different,” she said.

“Tired.”

“No. Quieter.” She bumped her shoulder lightly against mine. “That’s allowed. Just don’t disappear inside it.”

I nodded. It was easier than speaking.

Downstairs, the smell of slightly burnt eggs and toast drifted up. My stomach twisted. I hadn’t eaten anything real since the hospital.

We went down together. Dad stood at the stove in an old T-shirt, spatula in hand, looking mildly offended by the pan. Lucas leaned against the counter, stealing a piece of toast. The kitchen table was already set for four ,plates, forks, the good napkins we only used when someone was trying to make a point about family.

Dad glanced over his shoulder. “Sit. Both of you. Arm elevated if you can manage it.”

I sat.