Page 100 of Split Decision

“She showed up one day. By herself. No referral, no questions. She’s quiet, and she stays until closing every day.”

I swallow. “It’s killing me that I can’t be there—to sit with her, to figure out what’s waiting for her at home, todo something instead of just knowing she needs someone.”

I exhale. “Mrs. Alvarez is doing everything she can.” A pause. “At least the girl has somewhere to go. Somewhere that stays open long enough to feel like a break.”

He nods, understanding my pain and concern but knowing there’s no way around it. Then he watches me, studies my face, and asks silent questions with his eyes. He has the expression he wears when he's deciding whether to say the next thing.

"What?" I ask.

"I've been thinking about what you said. In Vegas. Before the accident." He turns the water glass in his hands. "You came to tell me something, and you didn't."

"Luke—"

"I'm not asking you to say it now if you're not ready. I just want you to know I noticed." He looks at me directly. "And that I have things I didn't say either. Things I kept putting in windows that weren't big enough for them."

The morning is quiet around us.

"We have time now," I say.

"We do." He sets the water down. "We have all the time we want."

That's when there’s a knock at the front door.

It's nota mail carrier knock. Not a delivery driver. It's a single knock—deliberate, not urgent—the kind that says I know you're home and I'm leaving this here, regardless.

Luke is at the door before I can position the crutches. He opens it to an empty porch. No car pulling away. No figure at the end of the driveway. Just the morning and the street and a padded envelope on the welcome mat, face up.

No return address. My name, handwritten. The center's address as the delivery point, crossed out in the same handwriting, and our home address written below it.

Someone redirected it.

Luke brings it inside without touching the flap and sets it on the coffee table between us. We both look at it for a moment. It's the kind of envelope that doesn't require explanation. Something about the weight of it, the deliberate handwriting, the crossed-out address—it announces itself as significant before it's open.

"Postmark?" I ask.

Luke checks. "Atlanta. Threedays ago."

I pick it up. The handwriting on the front is small and controlled—the kind of writing that was once neat and has been kept that way by habit. My full name. No title. No Ms. Just Andi Morgan, which is the name I had before I had anything else.

I open it carefully.

Inside: a document file, folded once. Physical copies. No digital cover sheet, no letterhead, no explanation attached to the outside. Just the documents themselves, paper-clipped in sequence, and a small card tucked inside the front fold.

I take the card out first.

Five sentences. Handwritten in the same small, controlled script.

I've watched this machine operate for thirty years. Jackson was the face of it. He isn't the source. The source is still standing. The name at the top of the first document is the reason you're not safe yet.—D.R.

I read it twice.

Then I hand it to Luke.

He reads it; his expression remains unchanged—calm and still, indicating he’s contemplating rather than reacting. After a moment, he looks up at me.

"Daniel Rhoades," he says.

"Jackson's brother." My voice is even. "Brandon asked you about him. Once. At your parents' house, after everything."