Chapter Eleven: The Stranger Who Left Me a Message

Elena’s POV

“I don’t know who that is.” The words came out quieter than I meant them to.

“It was on the entryway table yesterday. No stamp. No return address. Just my name and that.”

Samantha turned the card over, then back again.

“Your arm. How is it? I left something for you at the front desk of the Fairmont if you decide you want it back. —N.C.” She frowned. “That’s it?”

“Yep. That’s it.”

“And you’re going to pick it up.”

“I’m going to find out what it is. And maybe who left it.”

Samantha raised an eyebrow. “This is exactly how women in horror movies get themselves killed. ‘I’ll just go alone to the mysterious hotel desk where a stranger left me a cryptic note about my gunshot wound’.”

“I’m not meeting anyone. I’m collecting whatever they left. That’s all.”

“Which is why I’m coming.”

She folded the card carefully and handed it back to me.

“You’re not doing this by yourself. End of discussion. Also, if this N.C. turns out to be a serial killer, I get to say I told you so.”

I wanted to argue.

The words didn’t come. Instead, I slipped the card into the small bag I was taking and followed her downstairs.

Dad and Lucas were already in the kitchen. The smell of coffee and slightly overcooked eggs filled the space, the way it always did when Dad was trying not to show how worried he was.

Lucas stood at the counter, stealing pieces of bacon as Dad flipped another batch in the pan.

They both looked up when we walked in.

Lucas’s eyes went straight to the dress.

“Whoa. Someone’s trying to impress the sales racks today.”

Dad set the spatula down and looked me over more carefully, the way he had checked the bandage the day before.

“You look nice, honey. Shopping?”

“Yeah,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Just a few things. Toiletries. Maybe clothes that don’t require one hand to put on.”

Samantha slid into a chair and reached for the orange juice.

“We’re making a day of it. Girl time. No boys allowed.”

Lucas pointed a piece of bacon at her.

“Rude. I can carry bags with both hands. Unlike some people.”

“You’d complain the entire time and then try to buy something ridiculous,” Samantha said. “Sit down and eat your stolen food.”

Dad poured my coffee the way I liked it, too much cream, and set it in front of me before I could reach for it. He pulled my chair out a little farther so I could sit without twisting my shoulder.

Lucas cut a piece of toast into smaller sections with the side of his fork and pushed the plate closer to my good side without comment.

Dad slid a small portion of eggs onto my plate, the edges a little brown, the way they always were when he cooked under stress.

The banter kept going while we ate.

Samantha stole a strip of bacon from Lucas’s plate when he looked away. He threatened to tell Dad she was a thief and a menace. Dad told them both to stop before breakfast turned into another war and reached over to adjust the edge of my sling so it sat more comfortably against my side.

I ate slowly, the coffee warm in my hands, and tried not to think about the card in my bag or the fact that I still had no idea who N.C. was.

Halfway through, Lucas narrowed his eyes at us.

“Since when do either of you need three hours to buy clothes?”

Samantha didn’t miss a beat.

“Since your sister decided she hates half her wardrobe, and I refuse to let her leave the house looking like she lost a fight with a laundry basket. Mind your business.”

Everyone laughed.

Even Lucas cracked a smile.

I felt the guilt settle low in my stomach.

First deliberate lie under this roof in a long time.

I told myself it was small.

We were only going to a hotel desk. Ask a question. Collect an item. Come home.

Nothing dangerous.

Nothing that required an explanation yet.

After breakfast, Lucas tried one more time.

“I can drive. Drop you off, pick you up. Easy. I’ll even wait in the car like a good brother.”

“We need privacy,” Samantha said, standing and collecting the plates. “Girl talk. You wouldn’t survive five minutes.”

He groaned, dug his keys out of his pocket, and tossed them to her underhand.

“Bring it back without a scratch. And don’t let her drive like a maniac.”

Samantha caught the keys one-handed.

“No promises.”

“I mean it, Sam.”

“Shut up, Lucas.”

I laughed despite everything.

Dad kissed the top of my head on the way to the door and told us to be careful, his hand resting briefly on my good shoulder.

The ordinary warmth of it almost made me turn around and tell him the truth about the card.

Almost.

In the car, Samantha adjusted the seat and mirrors, then pulled out of the driveway.

The neighborhood slid past,quiet houses, a kid on a bike with training wheels, the same maple tree that had been there since I was twelve.

For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.

The radio stayed off.

The only sounds were the soft hum of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal.

Then Samantha glanced over.

“What do you actually expect to find at that desk?”

“I don’t know.”

I watched the houses give way to the main road.

“Maybe nothing. Maybe something that explains who left the card. Or why they care about my arm.”

“You think it’s connected to the shooting?”