Chapter 14 - The Return Address
Three days slipped by in a blur of sterile hallways, cafeteria coffee, and the sweet, agonizing triumph of watching Junie conquer the stairs at the end of the physical therapy wing. By Friday evening, Junie was asleep early, exhausted by a marathon session of occupational therapy, leaving Sloan sitting in the small, quiet visitors' lounge at the end of the hall.
The room smelled of stale instant coffee and old upholstery. Outside the reinforced glass window, a cold autumn rain had begun to pelt the asphalt, blurring the neon lights of the parking lot into long, bleeding streaks of red and yellow.
Sloan pulled a small, blank notepad from her tote bag, along with a heavy fountain pen she had salvaged from the Moretti estate’s library—a sleek, obsidian instrument engraved with a subtle, intertwined 'M'. She stared at the blank white page for a long time, the nib hovering just above the paper like a judge waiting to deliver a verdict.
She didn't owe Raphael Moretti anything. The housekeeping contract was fulfilled; the final paycheck was cashed; the distance between Harbor Ridge and the stone walls of the estate was measured in miles and absolute safety.
And yet, as she thought of the third-floor window where the curtains had finally been pulled back to let the light in, she knew the ledger wasn't entirely closed.
She pressed the nib to the paper and began to write, her handwriting sharp, elegant, and entirely unhurried.
To R. Moretti,
The sedan made it to Harbor Ridge without throwing a rod, which I suspect disappoints your mechanics. Junie walked seven steps today—one more than our agreement, though I suppose you’ll find a way to audit the difference.
I am writing to fulfill the clause of your housekeeping contract you conveniently overlooked: the weekly check-in. This is your official notification that as of Friday evening, you have not thrown a single piece of crystal, nor have you shouted at Daniel Bishop more than twice.
Keep the curtains open. The light suits the room.
May you like
—S.
She folded the heavy parchment, slipped it into a matching cream-colored envelope, and sealed it with a drop of red wax she had melted using a cheap plastic lighter bought at the hospital gift shop. She didn't write a return address. She didn't need to. Raphael Moretti would know exactly where it came from, and more importantly, he would know she was still keeping score.
