Chapter Ten: The Person Behind the Initials

Elena’s POV

I woke up to the same dull throb in my arm and the same wrong-side-of-the-bed feeling that had followed me since the restaurant. My old bedroom still smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the lemon polish Dad used on the dresser.

For a second, I forgot where I was.

Then I tried to move.

Pain pulled sharply through my arm, dragging the memories back with it,the restaurant, the gunshot, Damien, the blood.

I closed my eyes and breathed slowly until the ache settled into something bearable.

Getting out of bed took longer than it should have. I swung my legs over the side, braced my good hand against the mattress, and stood carefully. The bathroom was only a few steps away, but with one arm strapped into a sling, even those few steps felt like a negotiation with my own body.

I made it to the sink.

I managed to get the toothpaste open one-handed. That was the easy part.

Squeezing it onto the brush while keeping the tube from shooting across the counter was another story.

Half the paste landed in the sink.

The rest smeared down the side of the brush in a messy line.

I stared at it.

Then I tried again.

This time, the brush slipped from my fingers, clattered against the porcelain, and nearly fell into the sink.

I let out a frustrated breath.

“Great. I survived a gunshot,” I muttered at my reflection, “but apparently I can’t brush my own teeth.”

“Move.”

I looked toward the doorway.

Samantha stood there, already dressed in jeans and a soft gray sweater, her hair pulled back in a loose knot. She took one look at the mess on the counter, then at me.

She sighed.

“I’ve got it. Before you injure the other arm and then really make my life difficult.”

“I can do it.”

“Clearly.”

She walked over, took the toothbrush from my hand, rinsed it under the tap, and started over with practiced efficiency.

“Open.”

I opened my mouth like a five-year-old and glared at her while she brushed.

She was thorough.

Too thorough.

I tried not to laugh when she moved the toothbrush from one side to the other with the seriousness of someone performing surgery.

When she finished, she handed me a cup of water.

“Spit. Good girl.”

I narrowed my eyes at her.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.”

She rinsed the toothbrush and placed it back in its holder.

“Next time you decide to get shot, aim for somewhere less inconvenient. Like a pinky toe. Or an earlobe. Something I don’t have to help you wash.”

I rinsed and spit.

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best, and you know it.”

She set the toothbrush aside and reached for a clean washcloth.

“Bath next. You’re not hopping in that shower alone with one working arm. You’ll slip, and then I’ll have to explain to your dad why his daughter is face-down in the tub.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

But she was already turning on the water and testing the temperature with her wrist, the way she used to when we were teenagers and I’d stayed over after a fight with Damien.

The familiarity of the gesture caught me off guard.

For a second, I wasn't a grown woman recovering from a gunshot.

I was just Elena again.

The girl who had spent countless afternoons with Samantha, arguing over clothes, boys, school, and everything else that seemed important at the time.

The thought made something ache quietly inside me.

The bathroom filled with steam.

Samantha helped me out of the sling carefully, then helped me out of the T-shirt I’d slept in. She moved slowly around my injured arm, never once making a face or treating me like I might shatter.

The wound was still taped and clean, but the skin around it pulled when I moved.

I sucked in a breath.

Samantha immediately stopped.

“Too much?”

I shook my head.

“No. I'm okay.”

She gave me a look.

“You know, you’re allowed to say something hurts.”

“I know.”

“You clearly don't.”

Despite myself, the corner of my mouth lifted.

The bath was awkward and slow.

Samantha kept the conversation light the whole time, complaining about her last date who had spent forty minutes talking about his crypto portfolio, mocking Lucas’s driving habits, and asking if I still preferred the lavender soap or if my taste had “matured into something boring and adult.”

I laughed softly at that.

“I still like lavender.”

“I knew it. You have the taste of an eighty-year-old woman.”

“At least I have taste.”

She gasped dramatically.

“Excuse me?”

I smiled.

She washed my hair carefully, avoiding the injured side, her fingers gentle as she worked the shampoo through it.

For a while, neither of us said anything.

I simply let her take care of me.

And somehow, that felt harder than the pain.

I had spent so long convincing myself that I could handle everything alone that being cared for made my throat tighten.

When she helped me out and wrapped a thick towel around me, she gave me a quick once-over.

“There. Still intact.”

She paused.

“Mostly.”

I laughed under my breath.

Back in my room, she opened the suitcase I’d barely unpacked. Clothes were folded in uneven stacks because I’d done it one-handed the night I arrived.

“We’re not going out in that hoodie you slept in,” she said, flipping through the few things I’d brought.

She pulled out a dark green dress,simple, soft fabric that skimmed rather than clung, with a neckline that sat just low enough to look intentional and sleeves that wouldn’t fight the sling.

“This.”

I looked at it.

“I’m not going anywhere, you know…”

“Looking good is not illegal, Elena.”

She held the dress against me.

“And you haven’t looked like yourself in days. Humor me.”

I looked at her for a moment before finally nodding.

“Fine.”

I let her help me into it.

The zipper was on the side. She managed it without tugging the sling, one hand steadying the fabric while the other guided the pull.

She dried my hair enough that it fell in loose waves past my shoulders, then did something quick with mascara and a bit of color on my lips.

When she stepped back, I looked at myself in the mirror.

The woman looking back still had shadows under her eyes.

She still looked tired.

But she didn't look broken.

She looked like someone who had decided to show up.

Samantha’s voice softened.

“There. You look like Elena again.”

Something in my chest pulled tight.

I didn't answer.

I just nodded once and reached for the hoodie I'd left on the chair.

My fingers found the pocket automatically.

Samantha noticed.

“What’s in there? You’ve been checking it like it’s going to explode every five minutes.”

I hesitated.

Then I pulled the card out and handed it to her.

She read the three lines twice.

Her expression changed.

Slowly, she looked up at me.

“N.C.”