The scent clung to the inside of the evidence bag, even after Liam sealed it. Faint. Sweet. Deceptive. He couldn't stop thinking about it.
The flower had been found on the victim's chest, just above his lifeless heart—the blue petals bleeding its pigment onto the fabric like a signature.
Liam parked his car in front of a modest greenhouse tucked behind a crumbling bookstore. The windows were fogged with condensation, shadows of ferns and orchids dancing against the glass. The door creaked open before he could knock.
"Liam Miller," a voice purred. "Never thought I'd see you darken my door again."
He managed a tight smile. "Hey, Poppy."
Poppy was exactly as he remembered—half-wild, auburn hair pulled into a scarf, glasses slipping down her nose, hands stained green. The smell of soil and jasmine wafted from her as she stepped aside.
"I need your help," Liam said, offering the evidence bag.
She held it up to the light, squinting. Her eyes lit with interest. Then they widened with realisation before she burst out laughing.
"Well, well. You've brought me something seemingly rare," she said as she dropped the bag on the table, "but I'm sorry to inform you that it's not. It's just a white rose that was dyed blue with a water-based dye—hence the leaking pigment."
Liam leaned on the table, watching her as she opened a drawer and pulled out a magnifying lens. She studied the flower with the reverence of a priestess.
"It's not rare," she murmured. "But it was cultivated. Someone grew this—in perfect conditions. There are no signs of chemical treatment, and its petals are starting to wither at the edges—meaning it was freshly plucked, then dyed." She studied it some more. "Likely six to twelve hours ago."
Liam's jaw tightened. "You're sure?"
Poppy shot him a look. "I may have left academia, Liam, but I didn't forget how to identify a dyed white rose. Harmless. And beautiful."
She turned, her hands already moving as she filled a glass jar with preservation fluid. She picked up the flower to drop it into the jar but stopped midway, seeming to have noticed something.
"Where did you find this?"
He hesitated. "On a body. The victim was a well-known politician. No known enemies. No signs of struggle. Just this. Why?"
Poppy raised an eyebrow but shook her head and focused her attention back on the flower.
"Sounds like an assassin. A skilled one at that. Look at the leaves on the stem, honey. What do you see?"
Liam shook his head in confusion as he studied the leaves.
"I don't know. It looks like it's dying to me."
"Exactly. You see these black and brown spots here? It's necrosis—telltale signs of poisoning," she said, looking more fascinated than anyone should at the idea of poisoning.
"Given the other signs—the yellowing of some of the leaves, the ragged edges, and the wilting petals—my guess is monkshood poisoning," she said finally.
He didn't respond immediately. He just stayed silent for a beat. Thinking. Then he asked,
"What if someone ingested the toxin of a monkshood, can it be detected?"
"Oh, yes of course. Some blood work is enough to give you the information that you need."
"Shit" He swore under his breath.
She didn't say anything. Instead, she reached into a box on a side table and pulled out a pressed sheet of notes. "These are my old findings. This species doesn't grow in the wild anymore. Whoever's cultivating it has to be a serious botanist. Or obsessive."
Liam took the notes. "Could it be bought?"
"Not unless you know where to look. And even then, extracting the aconitine would be a hassle." She paused, her expression softening. "You're chasing someone smart. Be careful."
He gave her a nod of thanks, eyes distant as the gears turned. If someone was growing this flower, they had a greenhouse. Equipment. Knowledge.
A gardener of death.
As he turned to leave, Poppy touched his arm. "If you find them… don't try to do it alone."
He didn't answer.
Outside, the sky was shifting—clouds heavy with impending rain. Liam slid into the driver's seat, setting the notebook beside him. The pages aged with time.
He didn't know it yet, but the very same plant he was looking for was blooming under soft grow lights in a shop on Rosemont Avenue. A quiet little flower shop where fragrant bouquets masked a far darker purpose. Where a woman with gentle hands and warm, assessing eye arranged violets and foxgloves with deadly precision.