I don't care what you look like. I care that you're alive.
Forty-five minutes later, there's a knock at my door.
I stand frozen in the middle of my living room, heart pounding, even though I know it's Bea. Even though I'm expecting her. The knock sounds again, followed by her voice.
"Poppy? It's me. Open up."
I force myself to move. Shove the bookshelf aside—it scrapes against the floor with an awful sound—and undo the locks. Deadbolt, chain, the flimsy knob lock that wouldn't stop anyone.
Bea is standing in the hallway with a paper bag in one arm and an expression that shifts from worry to alarm as she takes in my appearance.
"Jesus Christ," she breathes. "You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"It's only been a few days."
"That's not the comfort you think it is." She pushes past me into the apartment, her eyes scanning the space—the drawn curtains, the bookshelf out of place, the general air of decay. "What the hell is going on with you?"
"I told you. Rough week."
"This isn't a rough week. This is a breakdown." She sets the paper bag on my kitchen counter and turns to face me, arms crossed. "Talk to me. Now."
I close the door behind her and engage the locks again, my hands moving automatically. Bea watches this ritual with growing concern.
"Are you in danger?" she asks quietly. "Is someone... is someone hurting you?"
The question is so direct, so simple, that it almost breaks me. I want to say yes. I want to pour out everything—the murder,the dahlia, the market, the phone call, the canceled client. I want to let someone else carry this weight, even for a moment.
But I can't.
"I'm fine," I say. "I'm just stressed. The gala was a lot, and then I lost a big client, and I haven't been sleeping well—"
"Bullshit."
I blink at her. Bea rarely swears.
"I've known you for eight years," she says. "I was there when your grandmother died. I was there when you dropped out of school to take care of your mom. I was there through every crisis and heartbreak and disaster, and I haveneverseen you like this." She steps closer, her voice softening. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. I'm not going to judge you. I'm not going to run away. I'm your friend, Poppy. Let me help."
The sincerity in her voice makes my eyes sting. I look away, blinking hard, trying to hold myself together.
"I can't," I whisper. "I can't tell you. It's not safe."
"Not safe? What does that mean? Poppy, you're scaring me."
"I'm scaring myself."
We stand there in silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on both of us. Bea reaches out and takes my hand, her grip warm and steady.
"Okay," she says. "You don't have to tell me everything. But you have to tell me something. Because right now, I'm imagining the worst, and my imagination is pretty dark."
I almost laugh. Her imagination isn't dark enough. Not even close.
"Someone is... interested in me," I say carefully. "Someone powerful. Someone I can't get away from."
"Interested how? Like a stalker?"
The word lands like a stone in still water, ripples spreading outward.
"Something like that."
