I stood too fast. “Daniel?”
“Yes.”
A sound left me that was half sob, half prayer.
Daniel came home two days later with bruises on his face, a bandage around his wrist, and guilt in his eyes.
The moment he stepped through the door, I ran to him.
“I thought you were dead,” I cried.
He held me so tightly I could barely breathe.
“I’m sorry, Amber. I found your dad’s notes in an old box. I thought I could figure it out before anyone got hurt.”
“You should have told me.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I was scared.”
“For me?”
“For you.”
Amos was arrested. Evidence found in his cabin finally linked him to the three original disappearances. After 22 years, three families received answers they had almost stopped hoping for.
The bouquet remained in police custody.
I never wanted to see another yellow rose again.
Weeks later, Daniel and I sat together on the porch, quiet beneath the evening sky.
“The flowers were not meant for me,” I said.
Daniel laced his fingers through mine. “No.”
“They were meant for you.”
He nodded, his eyes filled with regret.
For the first time, I understood the truth. The bouquet had not been a romantic gesture or a threat meant to break me.
It had been meant for the one person the killer feared.
My husband.
And somehow, after all those years, my father had still found a way to lead us home.
