Page 70

The screen illuminates her face.

And all the color drains from her cheeks.

“Wren?”

She says nothing.

I approach slowly.

“Little flower?”

Her fingers tremble.

She turns the screen toward me.

A photograph fills the display.

It’s Wren, standing outside her flower shop.

Taken this afternoon.

I recognize the pink dress she’s wearing.

The same dress beneath my hands moments ago.

Beneath the photograph is a message.

We need to talk, sweetheart.

I look at her.

“Who sent this?”

Her lips tremble.

“Grant.”

The name settles into my bones.

At last.

I know the name of the man who hurt her.

Outside, the streetlights flicker.

A low rumble rolls beneath the floor.

Wren looks up at me, frightened.

“Vidar…”

I stare at the photograph.

The angle.

The distance.

The unmistakable fact that someone stood close enough to watch her without being seen.