A man in his late 60s stepped through my front door a few minutes later. He had silver hair, tired eyes, and the kind of face that looked as if it had carried too many secrets for too long.
“I’m Detective Kellan,” he said.
The name stirred something in me.
“My father knew a Kellan,” I whispered.
His eyes shifted to mine. “Your father was Detective Ron.”
I nodded, surprised by the pain that still came with hearing Dad’s name. He had been a homicide detective for most of his life. Before he died, he occasionally shared stories from old investigations, never the worst details, but enough that I knew some cases stayed with him.
Detective Kellan moved toward the roses.
At first, his expression was calm.
Then he saw the three marked flowers.
The color drained from his face.
“Where did these come from?” he asked, his voice low.
“I told them. A florist delivered them. No card. No sender. Just my name.”
He turned to the officers. “Secure the house. Call it in.”
Officer Voss straightened. “Sir?”
“Now.”
My legs weakened. “You recognize this.”
Detective Kellan looked at me, and for the first time since the bouquet arrived, someone believed me.
“Twenty-two years ago,” he began, “three women disappeared. Each one received one hundred yellow roses before she vanished.”
My throat tightened.
“One hundred,” I said.
He nodded. “Not 99. Not 101. Exactly 100. Your father believed the number meant the end. A complete cycle. A final goodbye.”
I gripped the back of a chair.
“And the red dots?”
“Three marked flowers,” he confirmed. “Every time.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I remembered sitting with Dad on our old porch years earlier. He had been staring into the dark, rolling a cold cup of coffee between his hands.
“Some monsters don’t leave fingerprints,” he had said. “They leave symbols.”
I had thought he was just tired.
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