"I got your invitation," I say, skipping pleasantries. "Congratulations."
A hesitation. "Thank you. I wasn't sure you'd call."
"I need to ask you something, Vi. It's important." I take a deep breath. "Do you know anyone named Blackwood? Or any company called Blackwood Investments?"
The silence stretches so long I think she's hung up. Then, her voice comes through, lowered to a whisper: "Where did you hear that name?"
A chill runs through me. "So you do know it."
"Poppy, listen to me." Violet's voice is urgent now, frightened. "Stay away from anything to do with that name. Don't ask questions about it. Especially not to Dad."
"Why? Who are they?"
Another pause. "I can't talk about this on the phone. But please, promise me you'll be careful. And..." She hesitates again. "Maybe you should come to the engagement party after all. We need to talk in person."
Before I can respond, she hangs up.
I stare at my phone, unease crystallizing into fear. Whatever is happening, my sister knows something—and it frightens her enough that she won't speak freely.
I spend the remainder of the afternoon in a haze of worry, absently completing arrangements while my mind races. By closing time, I've made a decision. I'll attend Violet's engagement party. Face my family. Demand answers.
The black SUV remains across the street as I lock up, Sandra having left an hour earlier. I stare directly at its tinted windows before turning and walking deliberately toward home. Let them follow. Let them watch. I'm done running scared.
My apartment feels foreign when I arrive, as if the space has been altered in subtle ways while I was gone. Nothing obvious—just the creeping sense that someone has been here, touched my things, examined my life.
I check the new security system. No alerts, no signs of forced entry. Yet the feeling persists.
I shower quickly, then throw together a simple dinner. As I eat, I pull out my laptop and search for "Blackwood Investments." The results are sparse—a privately held company with diverse holdings, primarily real estate and technology firms. The CEO and founder is listed as Gage Blackwood, but there are no photos, no interviews, nothing to indicate who this person actually is.
I search deeper, trying variations of the name, but find little more. It's as if someone has deliberately scrubbed the internet of meaningful information.
Finally, I try "Gage Blackwood + William Everett"—my father's name.
A single result appears: a society photograph from twelve years ago. My father, younger but just as stern, shaking hands with a tall man whose face is turned away from the camera. The caption reads: "William Everett (left) concludes negotiations with Blackwood Industries representative."
I stare at the image, trying to make out the other man's features, but the angle makes it impossible. All I can see is dark hair, broad shoulders, and an expensive suit.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number:
The invitation still stands. Your sister would appreciate your presence.
I stare at the message, fear mingling with anger. I block the number, then shut down my laptop. Enough research for one night.
Sleep evades me. I toss and turn, fragments of memories surfacing like debris after a storm—my father's coded conversations, whispered arguments between my parents, the way certain names would silence a room when mentioned at family gatherings.
Around two a.m., I give up on sleep entirely. I move to the window, peeking through the blinds to the street below.
The black SUV is there, engine off, a silent sentinel.
Enough.
I grab my phone and take several photographs of the vehicle, including a clear shot of the license plate. Then I send these images to my sister, my closest friends, and my lawyer, with a simple message:
If anything happens to me, this vehicle and whoever's inside it are responsible.
It's a small gesture of defiance, but it gives me enough peace of mind to finally fall into a restless sleep.
The next morning,I arrive at Wildflower to find another red envelope tucked into the mail slot. Same heavy stock, same absence of postage or return address. I open it with steady hands, refusing to show fear even with no one watching.
