Thirty
Ellory
I quickly dress and then my phone rings. It’s Jim.
“We’ve located the dress,” he says without preamble. “It was found in a rundown apartment in Menlo Park. The police have it in custody now and are questioning the woman who had it.”
I sit up straighter. “And?”
“So far, nothing connects her to Olivier—or to you. She claims she bought it online, doesn’t know where it came from, and has no knowledge of the robbery.”
“It’s a million-dollar dress, and she was selling it on the dark web. The Menlo police don’t believe that do they?”
A sour taste rises in my mouth. Too neat. Too convenient. Someone like Heather would never be that careless.
“Inspector Lenning and my team are there.”
“Is Heather involved?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I can’t help it. The woman’s shadow is everywhere these days.
Jim exhales. “I can’t say that yet. Nothing points to her directly, but nothing clears her either. We’re still pulling the threads. I should have more for you soon.”
It should ease me to know the dress is safe, but all I feel is a hollow dread. If Heather’s hand is in this—and I’m certain it is —then what I’m seeing is only the surface. I look up and Matteo and Amelia are standing in the doorway.
“Call me the second you know more,” I manage.
“You’ll be my first call.”
The line clicks dead. I slip the phone into my lap, fingers trembling, the weight of unanswered questions pressing down harder than ever.
“They found the dress, but the woman’s story doesn’t add up.”
Amelia pushes away from Matteo, and he sets her down. She runs over to me full of smiles. It’s a nice reminder of what really matters in life.
Dinner is amazing. Amelia demolishes a bowl of carrot mac and cheese, which sounds awful but, to her, is pure heaven. Jessica’s stir-fry is better than anything I could order in from the city.
I help with the dishes, chatting with Amelia while Matteo dries. The rhythm feels easy, almost domestic, like we’ve done this a hundred times before. For a little while, I let myself sink into it—the warmth of a kitchen, the sound of laughter, the quiet steadiness of belonging.
Later, Matteo kisses me goodbye, and as I walk out the door, the ride home to my empty house feels a little emptier. What lingers isn’t their absence so much as the ache that rises in me. I want this—a place where I have a family and the good moments last.
I wake slowly, a smile already tugging at my lips. Images from last night drift back—Amelia’s giggles, her messy bowl of carrot mac and cheese, Matteo’s dry humor as we cleaned up together. For once, it felt easy. Simple. Like family.
I roll onto my side, checking the clock on the nightstand. Too early. And yet not early enough. My trainer will be at my door in less than twenty minutes. I groan, tempted to sink back into the cocoon of blankets and hold on to the glow of last night just a little longer.
Still, there’s a flicker of energy under the haze of sleep, a quiet thrum of anticipation. Last night wasn’t just nice. It was something I can’t stop replaying. And the thought of seeing Matteo again, of whatever comes next, is enough to pull me out of bed.
I tie my hair back and head for the kitchen. Coffee first. Survival second.
My trainer, Debbie, shows up right on time, bouncing on her toes like she’s already had three espressos. I’m barely half a cup of coffee in.
“Morning!” she chirps, way too much pep for this hour. “Shoes on. I’ve spoken to your team and they’re going to let us run down to the wharf today.”
I bite back a groan, lace up, and follow her out. The morning air is cool, the streets still quiet as we fall into an easy jog. Debbie, of course, never leaves room for silence. She loves to distract me with questions, like it’s part of the workout.
“So,” she says, breezy as ever, “you had to cancel a couple sessions after that concussion. What’s the latest with the police?”
I steady my breath. “That expensive dress I bought went missing. Thankfully, they just found it.”
Her eyes widen before she lets out a low whistle. “Wow. See, this is why I stick to Amazon. No one’s breaking into my apartment for a pair of leggings.” She grins. “I mean, sure, I wouldn’t mind your money, but I’m not sure it’s worth the hassle.”
I laugh with her, but the words catch somewhere deeper. I can buy anything I want, but she’s not wrong. Money attracts problems too. Stolen dresses, break-ins, constant scrutiny.
And then I catch myself. Poor little rich girl. Nobody wants to hear it. Not even me.
I push harder, lengthening my stride, letting the burn in my legs drown out the thought.
Debbie sets a brutal pace, her ponytail swinging like a metronome. “Come on, Ellory, you’re stronger than you think!” she calls back, grinning. Her pep is exhausting, but it’s also what keeps me moving.
By the time we reach the wharf, my lungs are burning. I slow to a walk, grateful for the cool sea air. The docks are quiet this early, just a few fishing boats heading out and gulls wheeling overhead.
That’s when I notice it—a sleek black SUV parked across the street. Nothing unusual, except it’s the third time I’ve seen it since we left my building. My stomach tightens.
“Let’s loop around,” Debbie says, tugging me toward the pier.
I follow, glancing over my shoulder. The SUV is still there, windows tinted dark. For a flicker of a second, I swear it looks like Antoine’s vehicle. My pulse stutters. Would he be following me? Why?
We stop to stretch by the railing, and that’s when I catch it—movement near the end of the pier. A man lifts his phone, camera angled right at me. The snap is audible.
“Ellory?” Debbie follows my gaze. She spots him too and waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, relax. You’re gorgeous, and people take pictures of gorgeous women. Comes with the territory.”
Easy for her to say. My skin prickles. To her it’s harmless. To me, it feels like a warning.
Before I can second-guess myself, I stride toward him. “Hey!” My voice carries over the water. “Why are you taking my picture?”
The man startles, lowering his phone, but doesn’t answer.
“Delete it,” I demand, stopping a few feet away. My pulse hammers, but I keep my chin high. “Now.”
He mutters something under his breath—too low for me to catch—then shoves the phone into his pocket and hurries off down the pier.
I stand there, heart racing, watching him disappear.
Behind me, Debbie calls out, half exasperated, half amused. “Ellory, let it go! He’s just some random creep.”
But when I turn back, the SUV is still there, idling across the street, its tinted windows like a wall of dark glass. Watching.
My breath quickens. I force myself to study the plate, repeating the numbers and letters in my head until they lock into place.
I jog back to Debbie, pretending nothing’s wrong. But one thing is certain. When I get home, I’m telling Duane and Richard.
I’m barely settled at my desk when a knock sounds on the door. Before I can answer, Jim Adelson steps in, closing it firmly behind him.
“Jim?” I blink in surprise. “You could’ve called.”
“Not for this.” He pulls out a chair across from me and sits, lowering his voice. “The man this morning—the one with the phone—he’s a private investigator. Hired by Willow.”
My stomach drops. “Willow?”
He nods, lips pressing thin. “Apparently not a very good one if you spotted him that easily.”
I fold my arms on the desk, leaning forward.
“But listen carefully. No more workouts without Duane or Richard nearby. Things are about to heat up.”
“Okay.” Debbie isn’t going to like it, but it’s probably smart right now. “So what’s the latest on Night to Remember ?”
Jim hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve traced a connection. Whoever took it has ties inside Olivier.”
A chill prickles down my spine. “Is it Antoine?”
Jim frowns. “Why would you think that?”
I exhale slowly. “This morning, I saw a black SUV that looked like his. It kept showing up. For a second, I thought he might be following me.”
Jim shakes his head. “No. That doesn’t track.”
My pulse stutters. “What do you mean?”
He leans back, his gaze steady. “I believe the police will be making an arrest today.”
The words hang between us, sharp and heavy.
“Who?” I press, heart hammering.
His expression hardens. “I can’t tell you.”
I grip the edge of my desk, frustration buzzing under my skin. Secrets everywhere. And every answer only seems to lead to more questions.