Chapter 7 - The Welcome Basket and the New Face
By Monday afternoon, the moving van down the street was gone, replaced by the quiet, orderly stillness of a settled household.
I spent the weekend finishing the data restoration for Apex Logistics. By Sunday night, my terminal was green across the board, the compromised routing models were secured, and David Vance had already sent an informal ping suggesting we grab lunch later in the week to discuss restructuring the compliance division—with my input leading the architecture.
On Monday evening, after returning from a run, I noticed a sleek, matte-gray Audi parked in the driveway three houses down.
Living alone in a four-bedroom suburban house in Raleigh has its quiet advantages, but suburban culture dictates a certain level of neighborly protocol. Ignoring the new arrival entirely would invite unnecessary curiosity from Mrs. Gable, whose surveillance network was legendary within a three-block radius.
So, I did what any reasonable Raleigh homeowner would do. I walked down the sidewalk holding a bottle of reserve cabernet sauvignon I had received as a holiday bonus the previous year.
The front lawn of the house was already noticeably different. The overgrown boxwood hedges that had previously provided a convenient blind spot for Jonathan Miller’s illegal entries had been aggressively trimmed back, exposing the front windows to the street.
I walked up the paver pathway and pressed the brass doorbell.
Inside, a muffled voice called out, followed by the sound of shuffling boxes. A moment later, the door swung open.
It was the woman I had seen directing the movers on Friday. She was wearing an oversized flannel shirt over a black t-shirt, her dark hair slightly disheveled, with a smudge of dust on her left cheek. She looked tired, but her eyes—bright, sharp, and intensely observant—immediately locked onto mine.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone polite but guarded, the voice of someone who had moved cross-country more than once and had zero patience for door-to-door salesmen.
"I’m Thomas," I said, offering a calm, easy smile and holding up the bottle of wine. "From three doors down. Welcome to the neighborhood."
She blinked, her gaze dropping to the wine label before rising back to meet my eyes. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, quickly replaced by a knowing, dry amusement.
"Ah. The welcoming committee," she said, stepping back to open the door wider. "I’m Elena. Elena Vance."
I paused, the bottle half-extended between us. "Vance?"
May you like
"David Vance’s sister," she said, leaning against the doorframe with a faint smirk. "He told me you lived down the street. Though, judging by the look on your face, he didn't mention I was moving in."
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