A memory stirred, old and unwelcome, like something buried under floorboards suddenly scratching to be let out.
My hands started shaking.
“No,” I said aloud, but my voice had no strength in it.
I grabbed my phone again. This time, I did not call Daniel.
I called the police.
The dispatcher asked for my name, my address, and what had happened. I tried to explain without sounding insane.
“A bouquet was delivered to my house,” I said, gripping the edge of the table. “One hundred yellow roses. No card. No signature. Just my name.”
There was a pause. “Ma’am, are you in immediate danger?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But three of the roses are marked. Exactly three.”
Saying it out loud made my throat tighten.
“Marked how?”
“Red,” I said. “Tiny red marks hidden under the petals.”
Another pause.
“And you believe this is threatening?”
I looked at the bouquet again, at those three hidden marks staring back at me like old wounds.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
The officer on the line told me to stay inside, lock my doors, and not touch anything else until someone arrived.
I did exactly what she said.
I locked the front door.
Then the back.
Then I stood in the middle of my dining room, staring at the flowers that had arrived while my husband was away, waiting for the police and waiting for Daniel to call me back.
But he did not.
And the worst part came an hour later.
By then, two uniformed officers had arrived and were standing in my dining room, looking at the bouquet with the careful politeness people use when they think you may be frightened over nothing.
One of them, Officer Voss, asked, “You said your husband usually sends white roses?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Always white. Never yellow.”
“And he is away for work?”
“That’s what he told me.”
The younger officer glanced at the flowers. “Ms. Amber, I understand this feels unsettling, but sometimes florists make mistakes.”
I wanted to believe him. I truly did.
Then a dark sedan pulled up outside.
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