He touched me. His fingers brushed mine when he handed me the roses. His hand swallowed mine when I shook it, his grip firm and warm, his pulse steady while mine raced like a hunted animal's.
He touched me, and I let him. I stood there and smiled and saidnice to meet youto the man I watched kill someone five days ago.
What else could I have done?
Screamed? Called for help? Pointed at him and shoutedmurdererin the middle of a crowded market?
No one would have believed me. They would have seen what everyone sees when they look at Gabriel Ambrose—the philanthropist, the patron of the arts, the man who funds children's hospitals and literacy programs and domestic violence shelters. They would have seen my wild eyes and shaking hands and thoughtcrazy woman, stay away.
He knows this. He's counting on it.
That's why he approached me in public. That's why he was so warm, so polite, so perfectly charming. He wanted me to understand that he can stand right in front of me, close enough to touch, and there's nothing I can do about it.
I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of each other, Poppy Rivers.
His voice echoes in my head, smooth and rich and terrifying. The way he said my name. Like he was tasting it. Like it belonged to him.
I pull the card from my pocket and stare at it.
Just his name and a phone number. No title, no company, no address. As if everyone who receives this card already knows who he is, what he does, how much power he holds.
I should tear it up. Burn it. Throw it away and pretend this never happened.
Instead, I set it on the floor beside me, wrap my arms around my knees, and try to remember how to breathe.
The morning passes in fragments. At some point, I get up from the floor. At some point, I make it to the couch, though I don't remember walking there. The dahlia is still on my kitchen table, dark petals gleaming in the gray light from the window, a silent accusation.
I like what you've done with the flowers.
He knew. When he mentioned the dahlias at the market, when he said they wereperfect, he was telling me he knew. That he left the flower and watched me find it and saw me bring it inside.
He's been watching this whole time.
The thought should make me sick. It does make me sick—there's a constant nausea churning in my stomach, a taste like copper at the back of my throat. But underneath the sickness, there's something else. Something I don't want to name.
When I brought the dahlia inside, when I put it in water instead of throwing it away, what was I thinking? What part of me decided to keep a gift from a murderer?
I tell myself I wasn't thinking. That I was in shock, traumatized, not acting rationally. That's true, as far as it goes.
But it's not the whole truth.
The whole truth is darker. More shameful.
Some part of me wanted to keep it. Some part of me looked at that perfect black bloom and felt something other than fear.
Seen.I felt seen.
It's sick. I'm sick. There's something wrong with me, something broken, something that responds to a predator's attention like a flower turning toward poisoned light.
I curl up on the couch and close my eyes and try not to think about anything at all.
My phone buzzes. A text from Bea.
Hey stranger. You alive? Haven't heard from you in days.
I stare at the message for a long time. Bea doesn't know. She thinks the gala was just another job, that I've been quiet because I'm tired or busy or caught up in work. She has no idea that my life split in half five days ago and I'm still falling through the crack.
Sorry,I type back.Been under the weather. Talk soon.
