CHAPTER 2
Inotice it on Monday morning—a black SUV parked across the street from Wildflower. The same vehicle I'd glimpsed following me on Friday night. Its windows are tinted dark, making it impossible to see who sits behind the wheel, but the sensation of being watched crawls across my skin like insects.
When Sandra arrives at eight-thirty, I'm already on my third cup of coffee, arranging white lilies for the Robinson wedding consultation.
"You're here early," she says, hanging her jacket on the coat rack. "Everything okay?"
I force a smile. "Just getting a head start. The Harrington wedding is this weekend, and we still have the Robinson consultation and three corporate deliveries today."
Sandra glances at the dark circles under my eyes but doesn't comment. Instead, she boots up the shop computer and begins sorting through emails.
"The Morgan account sent a thank-you note," she says. "Apparently, the arrangements we delivered last week were 'exactly what they were looking for.' They've requested anotherspecial delivery for tomorrow—they specified dark elements again, with a preference for black dahlias if we have them."
"We do," I confirm, my mind only half on the conversation. I keep glancing out the window at the SUV. It hasn't moved in the forty minutes I've been watching. "Who is this Morgan client, anyway? Have we ever met them in person?"
Sandra shakes her head. "All communications have been through their assistant. A Mr. Victor."
The name tickles something in my memory, but I can't place it. "Look up their company information, would you? I'm curious about what they do."
While Sandra taps at the keyboard, I return to the lilies, but my focus is shattered. The weekend had been unsettling in ways I couldn't quite articulate. I'd changed the locks on the shop as planned, installed a new security system in my apartment, and spent most of Saturday jumping at shadows.
And then there had been the dream—vivid and disturbing. My father's voice, cold and precise: "You've always been willful, Penelope. But never forget who you belong to." I'd woken in a cold sweat, sheets twisted around my legs like restraints.
"That's odd," Sandra says, frowning at her screen. "There's almost nothing online about Morgan Enterprises. Just a business registration with the state, listing an address at Harbor Tower. No website, no social media presence."
"What's the registration date?"
Sandra clicks a few more times. "It was formed... five years ago."
I freeze, a lily stem halfway into the arrangement. Five years. The exact length of time since I'd opened Wildflower.
"Who's listed as the principal?"
Sandra squints at the screen. "A holding company called Blackwood Investments."
The name means nothing to me, but the coincidence of the timing sets off warning bells. I'm about to ask her to dig deeper when the shop door chimes.
A delivery man enters, carrying a red envelope.
"Delivery for Penelope Arabella Everett," he announces, looking around expectantly.
My birth name, not the one I use professionally, not the name on my shop license. I step forward.
"That's me," I say, keeping my voice level despite the unease rippling through me.
The man hands me the envelope. "Signature required." He extends a digital pad.
I sign, watching as he nods and exits without another word. The envelope is thick, expensive stock, the color of fresh blood. No return address, no postage—hand-delivered.
"Secret admirer?" Sandra asks, eyebrows raised.
"Doubtful," I mutter, sliding my finger under the flap.
Inside is a single card, black with silver lettering:
Congratulations on five successful years of independence, Penelope. Time to come home now.
No signature. Nothing else in the envelope.
