Mrs. Rosa hummed while she folded laundry at the far end of the counter, her weathered hands moving with practiced efficiency. She was working through a basket of Daisy's tiny clothes, the unicorn pajamas, the dinosaur t-shirts, the dozens of mismatched socks that seemed to multiply in the wash.
And me. I was wiping counters, finally able to do it without my hands shaking after a weekend filled with anxiety.
Sunlight streamed in, painting warm rectangles on the floor. The scent of lemon cleaner mixed with vanilla from the candle Mrs. Rosa liked to burn. It was peaceful. It was the kind of ordinary, safe moment I'd spent two years dreaming of.
The doorbell chimed, a melodic sound that wasrarely used. So rarely that we all looked up at once, startled.
Jack never used the front door. Deliveries came through the service entrance. The doorbell meant... what?
Something cold whispered down my spine before I even knew why. Some primal instinct, honed by two years of survival, was recognizing danger before my conscious mind could catch up.
Mrs. Rosa's humming faded as she set down the laundry and went to answer it. Through the archway, I could hear the door opening, a brief exchange of words.
"Delivery for Mr. Spencer," a man's voice said. Professional. Neutral. Normal.
But nothing felt normal anymore.
I glanced over, trying to shake off the unease that had settled over me like a cold fog. Jack got deliveries constantly, in the form of documents that needed immediate signatures, tech samples from companies courting his investment, and gift baskets from business associates trying to get special favors from him. Nothing unusual. Nothing threatening.
But Mrs. Rosa returned not with a box or an envelope or one of those slim document portfolios I'd grown accustomed to seeing. She was holding a long, rectangular white box tied with a simple satin ribbon.
A florist's box.
"Must be for the foundation," Mrs. Rosasaid brightly, setting the box on the island. "Or perhaps a gift from a business associate."
But the box wasn't addressed to the foundation. It was addressed to Jack Spencer.
And the flowers visible through the clear cellophane were tulips.
White tulips.
My vision tunneled. The kitchen got very far away.
“Mommy’s flowers!” Daisy’s face lit up as she recognized the porcelain white tulips.
"Anna? You're white as a sheet," Mrs. Rosa said, her cheerfulness fading.
"Don't open it," I whispered, the words scratching my dry throat.
But it was too late. Daisy, curious, had already climbed onto a stool and pulled the box closer. With a child's directness, she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.
"No!" The word tore from my throat, but too late.
The tulips were pristine, waxy and pure against their green foliage. Nestled among them was a small, stark white card.
Daisy picked it up, her brow furrowed as she sounded out the words. "My... con... con-dol..."
I snatched the card from her hand before she could finish. It wasn't her burden to read.
The handwriting hit me first.
Sharp. Aggressive slant. The 'o's perfectly round, almost obsessively so. The way the 't's were crossed with a violent slash.
I knew it. God help me, I knew it. I'd seen it on legal notepads, on grocery lists, on the notes he'd leave when he was angry. Each letter was a small act of anger.
Carter's handwriting.
The message was short.
