25. Ellie

25

Ellie

“Things are looking really good on your bloodwork,” Doc says as he walks into the room the following day. “I’m really pleased with it.”

“Does that mean I can go home?”

“We’re not there yet,” he chuckles.

“Dang it.”

“Keep resting as you should and it’ll be soon.”

As Doc leaves, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at the screen and see Daniel's name. "I need to take this," I tell Ethan, squeezing his hand before stepping out into the hallway.

“Hey.”

"Elena, we've got a serious problem," Daniel says, his voice tense. "Silverton is accusing the Wolves of steroid use and a lot of other things. They claim they have an anonymous source for proof."

My stomach drops. "What? Are you serious?"

“They went public with this, you need to get ahead of it."

"Okay, first things first. I need to issue a statement denying the allegations and calling for an investigation. I can't let this go unchallenged."

“What about the anonymous source? Any idea who it could be?"

“I'll look into it. We need to find out who's behind this and why."

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

“I’d rather know what I’m dealing with.”

“I’ll keep an eye out on the headlines and send you anything else I see. I’m on my way up but I didn’t want to tell you in front of him.”

I take a second to steady myself. I do a couple of deep inhales before I walk back into the room.

Ethan looks up at me, concern etched on his face. "What's wrong? You look upset."

"Daniel just called. Silverton is accusing the Wolves of steroid use and a bunch of other things. They claim they have an anonymous source for proof."

"I think Kiara is behind this."

"Kiara? Why do you think that?"

Ethan sighs, rubbing his forehead. "When I got injured, the player who tackled me said it was for Kiara and that I should stay away from her. It didn't make sense at the time, but now it does. She's trying to take us down."

"I’ll look into that and see what I can find. If she is behind this, we'll expose her."

“I can’t believe they would accuse us of shit like this. It’s ridiculous.”

“They can’t handle that you beat them the other day and it’s just bad blood.”

He shakes his head in disgust. “It’s frustrating that I’m in here and can’t even do anything about it.”

I reach over and grab his hand as I see the frustration building in him.

“I’ve got this. It’s my forte. Take a deep breath and let me take care of it. Daniel is on his way up, I’ll switch out with him and handle this.”

“You’re the best, El, seriously.”

As I leave the room, my mind is already racing with plans and strategies. Kiara has crossed a line, and she’s about to find out what happens when you mess with the Wolves. I take a deep breath and start making calls, ready to tackle this crisis head-on.

How will I even know if Kiara is responsible for any of this?

I get out to my car and take another deep breath before I go to her social media page to see if she’s posted anything recently that would lead me to some clues.

She’s not very bright.

All over her social media page there are pictures of her with Luke, the player that hurt Ethan. There are already captions spouting love and judging from the timeline they haven’t been together very long.

I wonder if there’s a way to find out who the reporting party was. Surely the league doesn’t go off anonymous tips.

What kind of reputable journalists don’t look into their sources?

If Kiara is behind this it’s clear it’s because she’s a scorned woman, who would believe her?

I shake my head, start my car, and pull out of the parking lot. I head directly to the store to see what I can find online about the rules.

The article is specifically targeting Ethan. I’ll put out a statement that says he will be tested at any time and be clean.

Ethan and I have talked about how he prides himself on making sure the team is drug free of everything. I’m confident that any of the team members could take a drug test right now and pass.

What a mess.

I pull into the store and walk in.

“How’s Ethan?” Keeley asks without looking up.

“He’s much better. Hopefully, he’ll come home tomorrow.”

“Did you see the headlines?”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

“That’s wild. That player is a douchebag anyway, I can’t believe anyone is listening to a word he says.”

“There’s one player in particular saying it?”

“Yeah, that Luke guy. He’s always doing stuff like this though. He’s one of those blowhard type of guys. If someone beats him it’s always because they’re on steroids. If another team wins it’s because they paid the refs.”

“Interesting. Ethan told me that he’s the one who injured him too.”

“Oh that’s right.”

“He’s dating Kiara.”

“Ethan is?” she gasps.

“No,” I laugh. “Luke. I think she’s filling his head full of lies out of spite.”

“Oh that could be. You know, there’s something weird going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t want to worry you but it looks like someone tried to get into the back door again. There’s also weird markings on the front door. I let Daniel know and he’s having cameras installed on all the doors tonight.”

“Did Grams have problems with that?”

“Well, not that she turned in.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I would come in sometimes and a door or a window would be broken. She’d always brush it off like a rock hit the window when the city was mowing or that a neighborhood kid did it, but promised never to do it again. She’d always ask me not to say anything.”

“She never said anything to me or Daniel about it,” I mumble. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“She always said she didn’t want to bother anyone with silliness.”

“So we’re thinking the break ins just started happening and they could’ve been happening all along but Grams never reported them. Jeez.”.”

“Your friends Jaclyn and Ryan have been coming in separately or together too, but they’re never dressed like themselves.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, first does Jaclyn have any siblings?”

“No. Neither does Ryan.”

“Then it’s them for sure. Ryan will come in with a baseball cap and sunglasses on to look around. Jaclyn comes in with a wig and glasses or contacts, whatever. She rarely buys anything. One of them always comes in before the other one asking for you.”

“That is weird.”

“I haven’t let on that I know who they are because I want to see what they’re up to.”

“There’s also a really strange man that came in. He had a very thick Boston accent and was asking a lot of questions about Grams.”

“You didn’t get a name?”

“He bought some things for his granddaughter, he said. His name was Emil Casserotti. I only remember because I had a friend in grade school with the same last name, which is pretty unique. I also wanted to mention it to Grams, she liked hearing about people coming to shop at the store because they knew her."

“I don’t recognize that name. I’ll ask Grams about him.”

“He said he knew her years ago, but I got a weird vibe off him.”

“I’ll find out,” I shrug. “I’m going to go up to the attic and see what is all up there.”

She nods and I walk to the back of the store. I stand at the bottom of the narrow staircase leading up to the attic, hesitating for a moment.

The wooden steps creak under my weight as I climb, each step echoing the years of secrets this old building holds.

If these walls could talk.

Whiskers is right beside me, meowing louder each step I take. The air grows colder as I ascend, and I can almost feel the weight of the past pressing down on me.

What will I find up here today?

As I push open the creaky door, the dim light filters through a small, grimy window, casting long shadows across the room. Cobwebs hang from the rafters like ghostly decorations, and the floor is littered with forgotten relics and old furniture draped in white sheets.

My grandmother’s beautiful creations are still on mannequins as if she was still in the middle of making them. Whiskers jumps up on something in the corner, meowing and hissing loudly as she does.

I’m drawn to the wooden trunk she’s on in the corner, its brass hinges tarnished with age. I open it slowly, the lid groaning in protest, and inside I find a collection of my grandmother’s journals, their leather covers worn and edges frayed. I smile.

My fingers trace the spines, and I carefully lift out one of the journals, its cover embossed with a delicate floral pattern. This one looks familiar, but there’s something about it that pulls me in, urging me to read more.

“You’re the best cat in the world, Whiskers. Remind me to get you some catnip.”

Settling into an old armchair, I open the journal and begin to read. It’s not the same one that I read the other day, but that’s okay.

“**April 4th, 1953**

Armand and I spent the day wandering the cobblestone streets of Montmartre, the air filled with the scent of fresh baguettes and the sound of street musicians playing lively tunes. He took my hand, his touch warm and reassuring, as we explored the quaint shops and cafés. Every moment with him feels like a dream, and I can hardly believe my luck to have found such a passionate and charming man.

I’ve noticed that Armand has been more secretive lately, disappearing for hours without explanation. When I ask him where he’s been, he brushes off my questions with a smile and a kiss, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s hiding something from me.

I overheard him saying a name, Lucien Moreau. He repeated it numerous times, but I didn’t understand why.

Today, as we sat in a small café, sipping coffee and sharing pastries, I saw a man approach Armand with a stern expression. Armand called him Lucien. They spoke in hushed tones, and I could sense the tension between them. Armand’s face darkened, and before I knew it, he was on his feet, fists clenched. The other man backed away, but Armand’s anger was palpable, a side of him I had never seen before.

I watched in horror as he grabbed the man by the collar, shouting words I couldn’t understand. The other patrons stared, and I felt a cold fear grip my heart. Who is this man I’ve fallen in love with? What secrets is he hiding?

After the altercation, Armand returned to our table, his expression softening as he looked at me. He apologized, blaming the man for spreading lies about him. I wanted to believe him, but the fear lingered.

I will get to the bottom of this. I cannot marry a man that I cannot trust.”

Setting the journal aside, I glance around the attic, the urge to clean and organize overtaking me. If I can bring some order to this chaos, maybe I can make sense of the turmoil in my own life. I find a broom and begin sweeping away the dust and cobwebs, uncovering old boxes and forgotten treasures.

As I work, my mind drifts back to the journals. There are so many unanswered questions, so many mysteries. I need to know more about Armand and my grandmother’s life. Determined, I return to the trunk and dig through the journals, hoping to find the next entry in the story.

I had noticed that Grams had numbered all of her journals. And as I sift through the pile, I realize that the next journal is missing. Frustration bubbles up inside me, and I decide to search the attic more thoroughly. My grandmother had a knack for hiding things, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she stashed her journals in some secret place.

Whiskers is between my feet and I find myself tripping into a wall. A brick easily falls loose and I look down at her with a surprised chuckle.

“Well, you haven’t steered me wrong yet.”

I start tapping on the walls, listening for any hollow sounds that might indicate a hidden compartment. My fingers brush against the old bricks, feeling for any that might be loose. And then, on the wall opposite where the body was found, I feel a slight give. My heart races as I pry the brick loose, revealing a small cavity behind it.

Inside, I find a stash of canvas bags, neatly folded and hidden away. My hands tremble as I pull them out, one by one.

What could Grams have hidden in these bags?

I open the first bag, my breath catching in my throat as I see the contents. There are letters, photographs, and more journals, each one a piece of the puzzle that is my grandmother’s life. I can hardly believe my luck. It’s as if she’s left these clues for me to find, guiding me through her past.

Carefully, I open another journal and begin to read, eager to uncover more of the story. The pages are filled with my grandmother’s elegant handwriting, and as I read, I’m transported back to Paris, to the romance and the mystery that surrounded her.

"**April 10th, 1953**

Armand has been more distant lately, and I can feel him slipping away from me. I’ve tried to confront him about the fight, but he refuses to talk about it. His anger, his secrecy—it’s tearing us apart. I don’t know what to do. I love him so much, but I can’t help but feel that he’s hiding something terrible from me.

Yesterday, I followed him to a small apartment in a less reputable part of the city. I know it was wrong, but I had to know where he was going. He met with a group of men, their faces hard and unfriendly. They spoke in hushed tones, and I could see the tension in Armand’s posture. He looked like a different person; someone I didn’t recognize.

When he left, I confronted him, demanding to know what was going on. He was furious, his eyes flashing with anger as he told me to stay out of his business. He said he was doing it for us, but I don’t understand. What could he possibly be involved in that would make him act this way?

He pushed me into an alleyway and he hit me. Repeatedly. When I couldn’t take anymore, I slumped against the door and passed out.

The next thing I know, I wake up in a bed while Armand takes care of me. When I asked him what happened he told me that I fell down a flight of stairs and he was worried about me.

I know that he did this to me, but I’ll let him believe that I don’t for now. I love him and he wouldn’t hurt me unless he was under a lot of stress.

I’m pregnant too. I can’t… I can’t leave the father of my child so I will have to figure this out so that I can save him."

Tears fill my eyes as I realize what Grams endured.

Pregnant? My father is an only child and he was born in 1962.

I continue searching through the canvas bags. Each one holds more pieces of the puzzle—letters from Armand, photographs of them together, and more journals detailing their tumultuous relationship.

"**May 15th, 1953**

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. Armand’s anger is growing, and I’m terrified of what he might do. Last night, he came home late, his clothes disheveled and his eyes wild. He wouldn’t tell me where he’d been, but I could smell the alcohol on his breath.

We argued, and he hit me again.

I love him, but I can’t live like this. I can’t live in fear. I have to find a way out, but I don’t know where to turn. I’m trapped, and I don’t see a way out.

Please, if anyone ever reads this, know that I tried. I tried to save him, to save us, but sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes, the shadows are too dark, the secrets too deep."

I stare at the pages for a few moments, my heart breaking for Grams. I never knew she’d been through any of this.

Did anyone know?

I go through more of the canvas bags. When I get to the last one, it’s heavier than the others and I’m almost scared to open it and see what’s inside.

I pull the strap on the bag and slowly peek in.

There’s a very large metal box inside. I pull it out and set it on the ground. It’s heavy and well insulated on the inside so that nothing can get in. There’s a small satin piece of fabric between me and whatever is underneath it. I move it.

Money.

It’s full of money.

Wrapped one hundred dollar bills.

And there’s a lot of them.

Is this real?

This can’t be real.

I quickly go to the other bag and realize that it’s also full of wrapped bills.

What the Hell did I find?

‘Whiskers, you’re seriously getting enough catnip to set you up for the rest of your life.”