Chapter 3
I left the hospital through the side entrance because the main lobby had too many windows.
That was my choice, though the security guard insisted on pushing the wheelchair until the curb. My shoulder hurt. My legs felt unsteady. Still, when Adrian's dark sedan waited beneath the awning, I stopped before the passenger door.
“You said public place,” I told him.
“The diner is public.”
“You said no one comes with you.”
“No one is with me.”
I looked through the windshield. Empty back seat. No driver. No second vehicle idling at the curb.
“Where's Sofia?”
“Safe.”
The answer was too quick.
I held his stare. “That's not what I asked.”
“She’s with a caregiver at home. She asked whether you were awake.”
The words pressed against something tender behind my ribs.
I remembered Sofia's pale face beneath the cafe lights. Her dark curls tangled against my neck. The small hand gripping my uniform as if fabric could become a wall.
“Did you tell her my name?”
“She already knew it.”
I didn't ask how. The question waited in the space between us.
Adrian opened the passenger door but didn't touch me. “You can take a cab.”
“I know.”
“Or call someone.”
“I don't have anyone who can get here in five minutes.”
His attention moved over my face. “Then take the ride. You can leave whenever you want.”
That was the first thing he had said that sounded like trust instead of strategy.
I got in.
The city passed outside in wet gray strips. Morning traffic had begun to thicken, but Adrian drove without rushing. His hands stayed at ten and two on the wheel. I noticed that because I needed something ordinary to hold on to.
The pendant sat beneath my sweater. His half was in a small evidence envelope between us.
“You kept it,” I said.
“I keep records of everything connected to my family.”
“That's not the same as keeping a necklace.”
“No.”
“Where did you get it?”
“My father gave it to me when I was young.”
He didn't elaborate.
I watched a bus pull away from the curb. “And the other half?”
“I thought it was lost.”
“You thought?”
“That was what I was told.”
“By whom?”
“My family.”
He said the last word with no warmth.
The diner appeared ahead, a narrow building with a red roof and a parking lot crowded by work trucks. I had chosen it because it sat beside a county road and because the front windows faced the street. Anyone watching would have to be obvious.
Before Adrian parked, he passed me a folded paper.
“What is this?”
“A copy of the photograph.”
I opened it. He had enlarged the reflection near the delivery entrance.
The second figure's hand rested against the doorframe. A silver mark showed on one finger.
Not a ring. A small crescent-shaped scar, or perhaps a tattoo.
I recognized it.
My mother had drawn that shape on my wrist when I was a child. A moon with one sharp point. She'd called it a family mark, then laughed when I asked what family meant.
I folded the paper shut.
Adrian noticed. “You know something.”
“I know my mother drew that shape.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
His jaw moved once. “I won't force an answer.”
“Good.”
“But I need to know whether the person in that image can identify you.”
“I don't know.”
“Has anyone contacted you since the shooting?”
“No.”
“Has anyone contacted you before it?”
The question landed differently.
I thought of the envelope that had arrived at my apartment two weeks earlier. No return address. Empty except for a torn piece of paper bearing one typed line:
COME ALONE.
I had thrown it away.
Or thought I had.
My pulse began to climb.
Adrian watched the road ahead. “Claire?”
“I need to check something.”
“We can turn around.”
“No. The diner first.”
“Why?”
“Because I agreed to meet you here.”
He gave a small nod and parked near the side of the building.
Inside, the hostess led us to a booth by the window. I sat with my back to the wall. Adrian didn't comment. He took the seat across from me and placed his phone face down.
A waitress brought coffee and menus. I ordered toast because the thought of food made my stomach turn. Adrian ordered nothing.
“You should eat,” he said.
“You should stop telling me what to do.”
“I'll work on that.”
The answer almost made me smile. I looked down before he could see.
I handed him a photocopy of the ledger page. Not the original. He accepted it carefully, keeping his fingers away from the ink.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“You brought it.”
“I brought a copy.”
“And I made a copy of your copy.”
His eyes lifted.
“I don't survive by assuming people are honest,” I said.
“I wasn't calling you dishonest.”
“You were surprised.”
“Yes.”
“That part I believe.”
For a moment, the diner noise filled the booth: forks against plates, a coffee pot, tires hissing over wet pavement.
Then a little girl laughed near the counter.
My body reacted before my mind did. I turned toward the sound.
Not Sofia. Too young, blonde hair, yellow raincoat.
When I looked back, Adrian had seen my face.
“She called you Mommy,” he said quietly.
I said nothing.
“At the cafe.”
“I heard her.”
“She doesn't call strangers that.”
“She was frightened.”
“She looked at you before she said it.”
The waitress set down my toast. I broke it in half without eating.
Adrian lowered his voice. “What did your mother look like?”
The question should have felt invasive. Instead, it felt like a key being offered without a lock.
“Fine features,” I said. “Light brown hair. She pulled it back the same way I do.”
His gaze dropped to my hands.
I realized I was twisting the pendant chain around my finger.
“Claire,” he said, “I need to tell you something before we go further.”
Outside the window, a gray coat moved past the diner entrance.
The woman from the photograph stopped beneath the awning.
I couldn't see her face, but I saw the black glasses.
Adrian followed my gaze. His whole body went still.
I closed my hand around the pendant.
“Don't turn around,” I whispered.
He didn't.
May you like
For the first time, we were looking at the same danger.
And for the first time, I gave him the original photograph.
