The request was an immense trust. "Of course," I said. "Whenever you want."
He gave a sharp nod. "Tomorrow. I'll arrange it."
The sky was lightening to cold steel blue. I needed to leave, to shower, to process what had just happened. But Jack stood there, not blocking the path physically but emotionally, like he was trying to force something out.
"You handled it," he said finally, the words gritted out like they were costing him. "With Daisy. You handled it... adequately."
It was the coldest, most grudging praise I'd ever received. It was also, from Jack Spencer, a monumental admission. He couldn't bring himself to say thank you, but he had acknowledged my usefulness.
I just nodded, accepting the twisted compliment. I turned and left, the click of the service door echoing in the silent penthouse.
In my car, the dawn finally breaking, my phone buzzed.
Jack
Tomorrow. 10 AM. Our driver will take you and Daisy to Bright Pages. No need to return today, I’ve got it covered.
No'thank you.'No,‘I appreciate it.'Just instructions.
I sat as dawn broke fully over the city, turning everything gold. My hands were still shaking from adrenaline, from exhaustion, from the weight of what I'd just witnessed.
Jack Spencer, the man who'd stalked me for nine months, had called me at 5 AM. Not to threaten. Not to surveil. But because his daughter needed me, and he didn't know what else to do.
And I'd come running.
The hooks weren't just in my heart anymore. They were in his too, whether he'd admit it or not. We were bound together now, not by Elena's death, but by Daisy's healing. And I had no idea if that would save us or destroy us both.
7.Jack
The building shouldn't have been yellow.
That was my first, absurd thought as the car pulled up. A bright, cheerful sunflower yellow, with murals of cartoon children holding oversized books painted along the sides. Too vibrant. Too alive. A stark assault on the gray-scale world I'd been living in for two years.
My hand tightened on the door handle. I couldn't do this.
But Daisy was already unbuckling herself, pressing her face to the window. She stopped on the sidewalk, her head tilting back to take in the murals. "That’s me," she whispered, pointing to a painted child with dark hair. "This is Mommy's place?" Her voice was quieter.
"Yes," I managed, the word thick in my throat. "This is where she helped kids learn to love stories," I explained. We had only brought her here a few times when she was two, so it would be hard to remember.
Margaret, the head administrator, was Elena's right hand for six years. She was waiting for us at the door. She was a woman in her late fifties with kind eyes and a sensible cardigan. Her smile was warm as she ushered us in, but her gaze lingered on Daisy, and her eyes instantly filled with tears she blinked away. "Oh, my," she breathed. "She has grown so much since I last saw her. She looks just like..."
She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
Inside was worse. It was a physical manifestation of everything Elena was. The space was open and airy, designed by her to feel welcoming, not institutional. Walls were painted in soft greens and blues. There were cozy reading nooks shaped like little boats and castles, shelves overflowing with books, and dedicated areas for crafts and quiet play. The air smelled of paper, citrus-scented cleaner, and, faintly, of the lavender hand lotion Elena always used.
That scent. I'd forgotten about that scent. My heart dropped, and I felt my breath catching. She was everywhere here. Inescapable.
All the reasons why I stopped visiting the foundation.
"We're still serving about sixty children a week," Margaret was saying, her voice carefully balanced between pride and sorrow. "Storytime on Saturdays, after-school tutoring, and our lending library. But it's not the same without her drive. The fundraising has become challenging." She looked at me, something flickering in her eyes before she masked it. "We dohave good news. Emma Reed, the teacher who helps organize that children's show, has agreed to read more regularly. She was fond of Elena. She's offered to help with a final fundraising push before we transition."
Before we close.She didn't say it, but the real intention behind her words could be felt.
Daisy wasn't listening. She was absorbing the room, her little head swiveling. Then, with the unerring instinct of a homing pigeon, she dropped my hand and walked straight to the main reading room. In its center was a large, worn armchair upholstered in fabric patterned with flying books.
Elena's chair.
My breath hitched. Daisy stopped in front of it. Her small hand reached out, hesitant, touching the arm like it might be fragile. Or sacred. She looked at the chair, then at me, then back to the chair.
