The shop smelled of jasmine and early rain. Esme moved through the narrow aisles of Everflora like a ghost made of silk—watering, trimming, coaxing blooms open with gentle fingers. Morning light filtered through the frosted windows, casting dappled patterns over the floor.
She liked this hour best. Before the customers came. Before the questions.
At the back counter, she reached for her ledger—and paused.
An envelope lay on the wood.
Cream-colored. No stamp. No name except for hers—Esme—written in unfamiliar script. The loops of the handwriting were deliberate, almost elegant, but not familiar.
She hadn't heard the door open. No bell. No footsteps.
Her hand hovered over the envelope for a moment before she picked it up and slid a rose letter opener under the seal. Inside, a single sheet of paper. Plain. Typewritten. No letterhead, no signature.
Just five names.
Mateo Lopez
Marina Anderson
Silas Dorne
Alice Polak
Mathias Roan
She hadn't received a list in years. And she always dreaded them, because whoever sent the list knew exactly who she was—and could expose her at any time. That meant she had no choice but to follow through.
She read the list once, then twice. Her brow furrowed. A tremor of something colder than curiosity stirred beneath her ribs.
These weren't random names. She recognized them.
Mateo Lopez—oil magnate turned eco-saint who has spilled more than just oil. Smiles for the press, blood on his hands overseas.
Marina Anderson—judge with a near-perfect conviction rate in cases that never made sense.
Silas Dorne—spindoctor for corrupt campaigns. Known for sudden disappearances of anyone too curious.
Alice Polak—land developer, accused of arson that "coincidentally" cleared entire blocks of tenants.
And then—
Mathias Roan.
Her grip tightened on the paper. The name blurred slightly as her breath caught in her throat.
She hadn't seen that name in a decade. Not since the estate. Not since the fire.
He was supposed to be dead.
There had been a body. A funeral. Closed casket.
Her heart thudded once—heavy and deliberate—before settling into a too-calm rhythm. Years of training pressed her pulse flat, stilled the tremble in her fingers.
But something else stirred beneath her skin. Not fear. Not exactly.
Recognition.
Someone knew. Knew about the names. Knew about her. And worse—they knew her past.
Esme folded the paper with care and slid it into her apron pocket just as the bell above the shop door rang out—a soft, pleasant chime.
She turned, composed. Smiling.
Detective Liam Miller stood in the doorway, backlit by morning light, his shirt slightly rumpled, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. There was a folder tucked under his arm.
Esme's smile stayed in place. "Hi there! Welcome to Everflora."
She looked down at her watch, "You're out early. First customer of the day."
He gave her a crooked half-smile—the one that never quite reached his eyes. "Didn't sleep. Thought I'd pick up some flowers for a... situation."
"A sad one, I take it?"
"Funeral," he said. "Someone didn't make it through the night. The family requested lilies."
Esme moved gracefully to the cooler, her fingers skimming glass and petal. "Lilies," she repeated softly. "Symbol of restored innocence. Very poetic."
"Poetic wasn't exactly the vibe at the crime scene," Liam muttered.
She glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, you're a cop. Are you working the Halworth case?"
His eyes flicked up, sharp for just a second. "I'm a detective, actually. How do you about that?"
She turned fully now, holding a white lily in each hand. "Oh, you'd be surprised what my clients talk about when they think I'm not listening."
Liam smiled, but it faded just as quickly. "It's strange. No signs of forced entry. No evidence left behind. Nothing."
"Sounds... efficient," Esme said, arranging the lilies carefully. "Almost surgical."
He studied her for a beat longer than necessary. "You ever get nervous working alone here? So many strange people in the city."
"Not really," she said smoothly. "Flowers are good listeners. They tell me when something's wrong."
Liam laughed, but there was something distant in it. He handed her a card for the bouquet. His fingers brushed hers—barely—but her body reacted before her mind caught up. A flicker of awareness. Of danger. Or something else.
She tucked the card into the stems and tied the ribbon tight.
He paid in cash, as he always did, and turned to leave.
Just before the door opened, he looked back. "Hey?"
She met his eyes. Warm. Curious. Calculating.
"Yes, detective?"
"Thanks for the flowers. They're really beautiful"
"The pleasure is all mine, detective. Your next purchase is on the house", she said as her smile grew warmer.
He held her gaze a second longer, then nodded.
The bell chimed again as he stepped out, and the door closed behind him.
Esme stood still, fingers trailing over the edge of the counter. Then she slowly reached into her apron and pulled out the folded list.
The next few months will be very busy.