I turn. "Go inside."
"Knox, what does it—"
"Inside. Now."
Her eyes flash. Defiance, jaw set. "It's from him." I nod. "Show me."
I hand her the note.
She reads it. Once. Twice. She crouches beside the arrangement, checks the stems, the wrapping, and the ribbon. Studies the card stock, turns it over. Looks for a florist's name, a printer's mark, anything traceable. Nurse hands. Evidence hands.
"He was here. At our house."
"Or he sent someone. Either way, Arden was right. They know when we're gone."
"The hospital. The café. Now this."
"Yeah." I take out my phone. "He's done circling."
Malachi answers on the second ring. "Yeah."
"Harrison Mercer sent flowers to my house. With a note. 'Looking forward to seeing you again.'"
A beat of silence on the other end. "You sure it's him?"
"Sloane's sure. Good enough for me."
"Bring her in. We move the timeline up."
"Copy."
I turn to Sloane. "We're going back to the clubhouse."
She nods, crouched beside the roses. "What about those?"
"Leave them."
"Knox—"
"I said leave them." I step closer, hand at the back of her neck, tilting her face up. "He put them here so you'd carry them inside. So you'd look at them every time you walked through the door. We're not giving him that."
Her jaw clenches. She stands. "Okay."
I drop a kiss to her forehead. "Pack a bag. We're staying at the club until this is done."
She moves inside.
I photograph the arrangement, the note, the doorstep, the angle of the porch, the street. Text Nash.
Knox: Harrison sent flowers to my house. Need security sweep. Now.
Nash: I'll send a prospect. Don't touch anything.
Knox: Too late.
Nash: Of course it is.
Sloane reappears with a duffel bag. I take it, draw her into me with my free arm. She comes willingly, face pressing into my chest, fingers curling into my cut.
