Page 69 of Our Elliana

That’s precisely what the slightly loopy font says over a blurred-out field of brown with one lonely stalk of greenish-yellow grass in the foreground.

Thinking of you.

Unlike on previous occasions, on the inside, this card has no writing or typing of any kind. Instead, there’s a generous spattering of blood. Bright crimson blood. And I have no clue who or what it might belong to.

I keep rubbing my palm with my thumb as all the vital people in my life surround me. I feel this deep chill, and it’s not just because of the twenty-degree temps. This is the kind of foreboding sensation that would go through me even at the height of summer. A bone-deep ache that tells me this problem and whoever’s causing it isn’t disappearing anytime soon.

Jackson has been here all along, and he must’ve contacted the others because Tristan and Andre show up shortly after our heinous discovery.

“But your plans,” I object, the moment I see my BFF, but he’s already shaking his head at me.

“You need your bad boy right now, girlie girl.”

And I can’t argue as I leave Tristan and Jackson for just long enough to embrace my bestie in thanks. Noah arrives within a half hour of the others, right around the same time that Diego and his police investigation team appear, but it doesn’t help me feel any more comfortable.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel comfortable here again.

All I want to do is get away from my shop, and that makes me both sad and outraged. This has been my creative getaway, my refuge, my safe harbor. And now all I see when I look at it is that spray of blood.

Even though it was relegated to the card itself, it’s still like a horror movie. I can’t get it out of my mind.

No one comes up here except me, Jackson—only when I’m here—and occasionally Andre. Due to the delicate nature, miniature size, and expense of the precious stones and other materials I work with, no one else is ever allowed inside this inner sanctum of mine.

Now as Diego interrogates the three members of my staff who were on the clock today, I feel unhinged. Not only have we had to shut down the shop early on one of the most lucrative days of the fiscal year, I can’t seem to keep my terror at bay.

Whereas the break-in demonstrated a total disregard for my business, this method of disturbing nothing is even more unsettling. Why purposely destroy so much last time and not this time? Is it the same person? Could it be someone else or perhaps a different member of the same team?

What does all this mean?

While I’ve had an alarm system installed since the beginning, that didn’t include cameras until the break-in. Yet even then, I only had one installed on the outside facing the façade, and one on the inside aimed at the front door. When I explained this to Diego, the detective threw me a disapproving look.

“I would recommend upgrading to a higher-end security company. Someone who knows to situate cameras at integral angles in every single part of your store, both customer and staff areas. Legally, you can put them almost everywhere but the bathroom.”

We go through the rigamarole of more crime scene investigators dusting for prints and taking official photographs. Again, we take inventory to double-check that nothing was taken, and sure enough, nothing has been. Even the safe where I keep the priciest of my precious metals and gems doesn’t seem to have been tampered with.

Andre is sending the files of today’s recordings to the police department’s tech division, hoping that the guilty party has been captured on video. It’s possible, and I hold out hope for a hasty capture.

I need this stalker person to be found.

I need all this to end.

After closing the shop for the weekend, Andre opens it without me on Monday. When the detective contacts me, I wait with bated breath for some good news.

“Did you capture anyone on camera?” I ask him. “Did you see who the culprit might be?”

“We’re not able to determine anything definitive,” Diego replies, crushing all my hopes of an easy solution. I haven’t been able to catch any Z’s ever since this transpired, and I feel stretched out too far and exhausted. “Stay on your guard, Elle, no matter what else you do. Whoever is behind this is playing with you, and I don’t like it.”

I don’t like it either, needless to say. But my feelings on the matter don’t appear to be the point. Mechanizations are going on behind the scenes, and I can’t predict what this person’s next move will be. Most upsetting of all is how I can’t stop pondering two vital questions.

Who is doing this to me?

And why?

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ONCE HOME, THE FOUR of us crash on the soft lounger. I flip on some old re-runs of 227, a sitcom my parents both loved, and the humor takes me out of my mind for a bit. Yet it’s not too much after that when I notice Jackson and Noah dozing off on either side of me. Nearby, Tristan situates himself on the opposite end.

He’s the only one alert enough to stay here with me.

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