Chapter 4: The Manager Knows More Than He Said
I was up before Avery.
I dressed quietly, left the door cracked so I could hear her if she woke, and walked down to the front desk.
The castle was different in the early morning — stone floors catching the pale light, the smell of old wood and something baking somewhere below.
The night manager had been replaced by a woman in her fifties with reading glasses pushed up on her head and a coffee mug that said *Mornings Are Hard* in faded letters.
"Good morning," she said.
"You must be in the tower suite."
"I am.
I was hoping to speak with the manager who was on last night.
He brought something to our room."
She set her mug down.
"That would be Thomas.
He comes in at ten."
"Is there any way to reach him before that?"
She studied me for a moment.
"Is something wrong?"
"No.
Nothing's wrong.
I just — someone left something for my daughter and I'd like to know who arranged it."
Her expression shifted.
Not much.
But enough.
"I see."
"You know about it."
It wasn't a question.
She picked up her mug again, took a slow sip.
"I know the kitchen was asked to prepare a basket yesterday afternoon.
I signed off on it."
"Who made the request?"
"It came through our guest services coordinator.
A booking was made — I want to say three weeks ago — with specific instructions attached.
The basket, the timing, the cart placement.
All of it was written out."
"Who made the booking?"
She set the mug down again.
"I'm sorry.
I genuinely don't know.
It was handled through a third-party concierge service.
We received the instructions and a payment.
That's all I have."
"There must be a name somewhere.
A contact."
"There's a company name on the invoice.
But the individual — no.
They didn't leave one." She paused.
"I will say this.
In twenty-two years here, I've never seen instructions this detailed.
Every item in that basket was specified by name.
The rabbit was shipped to us two weeks ago with a note about the embroidery."
I stared at her.
"Someone shipped the rabbit here two weeks ago."
"With the name already on it." She looked at me steadily.
"Whoever did this knew your daughter's name before they contacted us."
I put my hand on the counter.
The stone was cold.
"The letter mentioned *us*," I said.
"More than one person."
"I can't speak to that.
But the concierge account — when I looked it up after Thomas called me last night — it had been used once before.
About eight months ago.
A different property, different city.
I only noticed because the account name was unusual."
"What was the name?"
She hesitated.
Then she reached under the counter, wrote something on a notepad, and slid it across to me.
*The Avery Fund.*
I read it twice.
"They named it after her," I said.
"That's what it appears."
I folded the paper and put it in my pocket.
My throat was tight.
"Thank you."
"Your daughter," she said, as I turned to go.
"How is she doing?"
I stopped.
"She's sleeping right now.
She had a good night."
"I'm glad." She picked up her mug.
"Thomas will be in at ten if you want to speak with him.
But I don't think he'll know more than I do.
I think whoever arranged this wanted to stay invisible."
I walked back toward the stairs.
*The Avery Fund.* An account used once before, eight months ago.
A different property.
A different city.
Eight months ago, Avery's second round of treatment had just failed.
I stopped on the staircase, one hand on the stone wall.
Eight months ago, I had posted something.
Not on the fundraiser page — I had taken that down.
On a private group for parents of children with cancer.
A single post, late at night, when I was too tired to be careful.
I had written about Avery wanting to see a castle someday.
About how I kept saying *someday* and how I was starting to understand that someday was a word I needed to stop using.
I had deleted it the next morning.
May you like
I thought no one had seen it.
Someone had.
