Page 42 of Our Elliana
I would’ve predicted that she’d be falling apart with fear right now, but she’s not. In fact, she seems almost unnaturally self-possessed as she approaches a clean shaven African American man with glasses and short braids.
At least until she barks, “Andre, what the hell happened?”
Andre, for his part, isn’t fearful, either. He’s angry. Angry enough that I can feel it radiating off the man in waves.
“I closed up for the night less than a fucking half-hour ago,” Andre explains, his features contorted in disgust. “I was staying late to finish up some paperwork, and it was almost like they waited for me to leave.”
“They may have been,” another man with a stern and authoritative demeanor states, and I peer at the newcomer. He seems vaguely familiar, although I can’t place him.
“You already said that, Diego,” Andre snaps, then takes a deep breath. “Sorry. Sorry. This isn’t your fault. I’m just...”
“Stressed,” Elle fills in, rubbing long strokes up and down Andre’s back. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No, baby. No one was here to be hurt, even if it was only by minutes.”
I whip my head around to face Andre at his reference to Elliana as baby. But then I think back to mentions she’s made of him. He’s not just her store manager but her friend, I remember. An old, dear friend. She interacts with Andre so much differently than she does with us. It’s almost familial.
If the circumstances weren’t as dire, I’d be interested in observing them together for longer.
“Elliana,” the police officer Andre referred to as Diego speaks to her. He’s one of the few dressed in a sports coat, jeans, and boots rather than a black patrol uniform. “I’m going to need you and Andre to identify whatever might be missing.” He pauses, peers over at me, and introduces himself. “Detective Diego Ruiz. And you are?”
“Canter,” I rattle off, slipping into firefighter mode. We all call each other by our last names.
“He’s Noah Canter, I’m Jackson McTierney, and that’s Tristan St. Pierre. Is there some reason you want to know?” Jackson’s question is more aggressive than I’d ever dare use with an officer of the law. Maybe that’s why the detective boomerangs it right back at him.
“What’s the reason for your presence here? All three of you?”
“Because I asked them to accompany me, Diego,” Elle interrupts. “Don’t go all throw-your-weight-around cop on me now.”
The detective frowns at her. “Knowing their relation to you might be material to this case.”
“They’re employed by me, nosey,” she tosses at him.
“Bodyguards?”
“In a manner of speaking. How about we concentrate on the matter at hand, shall we?”
“We won’t allow anything to happen to her, detective,” I promise him, and Tristan and Jackson wrench out nods at him, as well. That seems enough to make him relent.
“Fine. My team has retrieved these items from the debris. I just need you two to separately note the inventory we’ve found, all right? How about you first?”
As Elle studies the contents off to the side, Jackson goes up to Andre. “You doing okay, man?”
“Not really. I can’t believe this happened.” His bespectacled face then scrutinizes Elliana. “At least this didn’t go down on Tuesday.”
“Right,” Jackson understands even if I don’t. “Your day off.”
“It’s the one day of the week when she opens and closes without me. Although usually there’s another part-timer with her. After all that nonsense with the cards, this shit sets my nerves on edge.”
“Cards?” I demand, reinserting myself into their conversation. I’m being rude, and growing up, I would’ve been heartily reprimanded for such a thing. But I have to know.
“Elle didn’t tell you?” Andre asks us all, eyeing Jackson, Tristan, and me individually. “Thought she was going home to do precisely that.” He shakes his head in frustration. “She’s been receiving cards here at work. Condolence cards with no return address. I think they’re creepy.”
That’s when she returns to us.
It’s Tristan who asks. “You’ve been getting sent creepy condolence cards?”
The detective has been off doing something on the opposite end of the crime scene, but that pricks up his ears.