Chapter 12: Adela
Thenurseclosesthedoor behind me with a soft click.
I walk to Cody's bedside and find his hand. The tears come quietly, the way they do now — no buildup, no warning. Just there.
"Cody," I whisper. "I hate seeing you like this. Can you hear me?"
The heart monitor beeps its steady, indifferent rhythm.
A knock. Then the door opens before I can answer, and a delivery person carries in a massive bouquet — white lilies and red roses, an arrangement so large it crowds the small room.
I wipe my tears, feeling happy to see that someone bought Cody lovely flowers.
"Who are they from?" I ask, my voice too high.
"Just delivering them, ma’am." He sets them on the table and leaves.
I look at the flowers for a moment. "Someone bought you flowers," I tell Cody softly, trying for lightness. “They’re really pretty.”
I lean down to smell one of the lilies. Too sweet. Almost cloying. I pull the small envelope from the plastic card holder and open it.
Crying won't bring him back.
I read it twice. Then once more.
The room doesn't tilt. My lungs don't seize. Something colder happens — a slow, precise stabbing feeling that moves through me slowly.
The timing is wrong. I didn't tell anyone I was coming today.
I set the card down on the bedside table and look at the door. The window. The ceiling. I'm not searching for a camera — that's not the thought that comes to mind. The thought that comes is quieter and worse; they don't need a camera. They just need to know my patterns.
I've been here every day at the same time, parked in the same lot, and taken the same hallway.
I pick up the bouquet carefully, like it might prove something if I handle it right. I look at Cody — still, pale, present only in the sound of machines — and I don't say goodbye. I just leave.
I'm parked outside my parents' house before I've consciously decided to drive here. I sit in the car for a moment, flowers in the passenger seat, card in my hand.
Crying won't bring him back.
I text the group chat: Emergency. My house. Come now.
They arrive within the hour. Maeve, Julian, Ryan, Elena, Penelope — some together, some separate. My mom appears briefly, reads the room, and disappears back to wherever she came from. We take the stairs to the second living room.
"What's with the flowers?" Julian asks.
I set the bouquet on the coffee table and hand him the card.
He reads it, goes completely still, and passes it to Maeve without a word.
The card moves around the room in silence. That's what I'll remember — not the gasps, but the quiet. The way each of them read it and looked up at me differently.
Penelope says, "This isn't random."
"No," I say. "It's not."
I hold up Cody's laptop. "When I opened this a few days ago, a man in a mask appeared on screen through the camera. The whole thing is wiped — there's one locked folder I can't get into."
Maeve closes her eyes briefly. "Adela."
