I don't know why. I don't want to examine why.
The funeral arrangement is due Monday. Mrs. Patterson's mother—a woman I never met but whose favorite flowers were white roses and baby's breath. I promised the family something elegant, understated, a final tribute to a life well-lived.
The roses are gone. Abandoned somewhere on Maple Street yesterday morning, dropped in my panic to escape him.I need to go back to the market today, buy new supplies, work through the night to have everything ready for Monday delivery.
I force myself to stand. My legs are stiff, my back aching from hours curled in the same position. I move to the window and peer through the gap in the curtains, scanning the street below for anything out of place.
A woman walking her dog. A man jogging with earbuds in. Cars parked along the curb, none of them occupied as far as I can tell.
Normal. Everything looks normal.
But he found me at the market. He found my phone number. He's probably had someone watching my building this whole time, tracking my movements, reporting back to him.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
I let the curtain fall and step back from the window. I need to go to the market. I need to salvage this job, this client, this fragile thread of my professional reputation. Mrs. Patterson is counting on me. Her mother deserves beautiful flowers at her funeral.
I reach for the deadbolt. My hand hovers over it, trembling.
I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of each other, Poppy Rivers.
I pull my hand back.
I can't do it. I can't make myself open that door, step into that hallway, walk out onto that street where he might be waiting. The fear is a physical thing, a weight pressing on my chest, stealing my breath.
One more hour, I tell myself. I'll go in one more hour.
The hour passes. Then another.
Around ten o'clock, my phone rings.
I flinch so hard I nearly knock over the glass of water I've been nursing. The screen shows a local number—not unknown, not his. I stare at it for three rings, four, my heart hammering.
It's probably nothing. A telemarketer. A wrong number.
I answer anyway, because the not-knowing is worse than anything.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Rivers? This is Catherine Patterson."
The client. The funeral arrangement. I close my eyes and try to force my voice into something resembling professional.
"Mrs. Patterson. I was just about to call you. I wanted to confirm the delivery time for tomorrow—"
"That's actually why I'm calling." She pauses, and in that pause, I hear everything. The awkwardness. The reluctance. The words she's about to say that will make my already crumbling life crumble a little more. "I'm afraid we need to cancel the order."
The words don't register at first. "Cancel?"
"I'm so sorry. I know this is last-minute, and I feel terrible about it. But we've had another florist reach out—a larger company, very reputable. They offered to do the arrangements at no charge, as a... a kindness, they said. Given the circumstances."
I sink back onto my couch, the phone pressed to my ear, trying to understand.
"At no charge," I repeat.
"Yes. They said they'd heard about my mother's passing and wanted to help. It seemed like such a generous offer, and with the costs of the funeral already..." She trails off. "I hope you understand. It's nothing personal. Your work at the Morrison wedding was beautiful. I just couldn't turn down—"
"Of course." My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from someone else. "Of course, I understand. These things happen."
