Page 26 of Noel
“Talk to me,” I say.
Jack flips open the tablet.
“We’ve reviewed the lobby and service-corridor feeds from the past four hours.No sign of anyone bringing in a package that matches the description.”
I frown.“That’s impossible.Something that size doesn’t just materialize.”
“Agreed,” Ego rumbles, voice thick and gravelly.“Staff say deliveries come through the east loading dock.We checked—everything’s logged except for one gap between six-fifty and seven-oh-two a.m.Feed cuts out for twelve minutes.Tech thinks it was looped.”
I feel the hair rise at the back of my neck.
“So someone knew exactly where the cameras were.”
Jack nods.
“And when to move.We questioned everyone who was on-site before eight.Most of them didn’t see anything, but one maid—Teresa Alonzo—mentioned a black van parked in the alley behind the kitchen entrance.Said it didn’t look like a hotel supplier.”
“Details.”
“She said a man got out wearing a gray sweatsuit, beanie, sunglasses.Middle height, lean build.She assumed he was a courier because he carried a small box.She turned away to grab linens, looked back, and the van was gone.”
Twelve minutes.Just enough time to slip in, plant the gift, and disappear.
I stare at the footage looping on the main monitor.Empty corridor, then static, then the next frame with the chair and the box waiting like a taunt.
“Did she catch a plate number?”
Jack shakes his head.
“No.But she thinks she saw a sticker on the bumper—maybe a sports logo?Could’ve been Mets or Knicks.”
“Get a list of all delivery vans that came through Midtown in that window.Cross-check with traffic cameras on Fifty-Seventh and Eighth.”
They both nod, already moving.
Ego pauses at the door.
“You want us to pull hotel staff for interviews again?”
“No.Let them breathe.Whoever planted that thing is long gone.”I hesitate, glancing toward the monitor that shows Studio B’s hallway.
“But keep eyes on her door until I get her out of here.”
“Want us to bring her?—”
“No,” I say, cutting Jack off from finishing that offer.
I don’t give an explanation.
Ego’s brows lift, but he just says, “Copy,” and disappears down the hall.
When the room is quiet again, I lean against the console, staring at the grainy freeze-frame of the dead rose sitting on that chair.
The stalker’s handwriting bleeds across the tag like it was carved instead of written.
A black van.A man in a beanie.A message meant to make her panic.
He’s getting bolder.Closer.
