Chapter 13 Anna
I'd spent the last five days avoiding being alone with Jack.
It wasn't hard. I didn’t work at his home on weekends, so after Saturday's reading, I went straight home and didn’t pick up any of his calls.
Anna
I don’t feel too well. See you on Monday.
The text was quite vague, but Jack was too polite to pressure me into talking, especially when I was claiming to be ill and establishing a boundary, so our only form of contact for the rest of the weekend were checkup messages from him.
The penthouse was large enough that I could hear his footsteps and strategically position myself in rooms he'd already passed through.
I timed my arrival on Monday for when Mrs. Rosa would be there, and my departure for when Daisy needed attention.
I became a master of the polite exit, the necessary task that couldn't wait, the phone call I absolutely had to take in another room.
Anything to avoid the conversation I knew was coming. The one where he'd ask about Saturday. About the terror he'd seen flash across my face when my phone lit up. About why I'd gone pale as a ghost in the middle of a children's reading session, my hands shaking so badly I'd nearly dropped the book.
He'd noticed. Of course, he'd noticed. Jack noticed everything.
But I couldn't tell him. Not about the text.
Not about the creeping certainty that had been building in my gut for the past week, the feeling of being watched, the hang-up calls to the foundation's main line, the white sedan I'd seen twice near my apartment building that looked too much like the one Carter's friend used to drive.
It was probably nothing. Paranoia. The ghost of trauma making me see monsters in shadows.
But the text... the text had been real.
Soon.
That single word had been haunting me for five days. I'd deleted the text immediately, blocked the number, but it lived in my mind, playing on repeat. Soon. Soon what? Soon, he'd find me? Soon, he'd make good on every threat he'd ever whispered in my ear?
Carter was in prison. His sentence was fifteen years. The documents said so. The news articles confirmed it. He couldn't reach me.
Logic did nothing to calm the primal fear that lived in my conscious now.
But I pushed it aside and decided to focus on this beautiful Tuesday and the pleasant weather it had to offer.
Daisy sat at the kitchen table practicing her letters, her small tongue peeking out in concentration as she carefully traced the curves and lines of her name.
She'd mastered the 'D' and the 'a,' but the 'i' still gave her trouble; she kept making it backwards.
Each time she caught her mistake, she'd let out a small huff of frustration that was adorable and achingly familiar. So much like her father.
Mrs. Rosa hummed while she folded laundry at the far end of the counter, her weathered hands moving with practiced efficiency. She was working through a basket of Daisy's tiny clothes, the unicorn pajamas, the dinosaur t-shirts, the dozens of mismatched socks that seemed to multiply in the wash.
And me. I was wiping counters, finally able to do it without my hands shaking after a weekend filled with anxiety.
Sunlight streamed in, painting warm rectangles on the floor. The scent of lemon cleaner mixed with vanilla from the candle Mrs. Rosa liked to burn. It was peaceful. It was the kind of ordinary, safe moment I'd spent two years dreaming of.
The doorbell chimed, a melodic sound that was rarely used. So rarely that we all looked up at once, startled.
Jack never used the front door. Deliveries came through the service entrance. The doorbell meant... what?
Something cold whispered down my spine before I even knew why. Some primal instinct, honed by two years of survival, was recognizing danger before my conscious mind could catch up.
Mrs. Rosa's humming faded as she set down the laundry and went to answer it. Through the archway, I could hear the door opening, a brief exchange of words.
"Delivery for Mr. Spencer," a man's voice said. Professional. Neutral. Normal.
But nothing felt normal anymore.
I glanced over, trying to shake off the unease that had settled over me like a cold fog.
Jack got deliveries constantly, in the form of documents that needed immediate signatures, tech samples from companies courting his investment, and gift baskets from business associates trying to get special favors from him. Nothing unusual. Nothing threatening.
But Mrs. Rosa returned not with a box or an envelope or one of those slim document portfolios I'd grown accustomed to seeing. She was holding a long, rectangular white box tied with a simple satin ribbon.
A florist's box.
"Must be for the foundation," Mrs. Rosa said brightly, setting the box on the island. "Or perhaps a gift from a business associate."
But the box wasn't addressed to the foundation. It was addressed to Jack Spencer.
And the flowers visible through the clear cellophane were tulips.
White tulips.
My vision tunneled. The kitchen got very far away.
“Mommy’s flowers!” Daisy’s face lit up as she recognized the porcelain white tulips.
"Anna? You're white as a sheet," Mrs. Rosa said, her cheerfulness fading.
"Don't open it," I whispered, the words scratching my dry throat.
But it was too late. Daisy, curious, had already climbed onto a stool and pulled the box closer. With a child's directness, she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.
"No!" The word tore from my throat, but too late.
The tulips were pristine, waxy and pure against their green foliage. Nestled among them was a small, stark white card.
Daisy picked it up, her brow furrowed as she sounded out the words. "My... con... con-dol..."
I snatched the card from her hand before she could finish. It wasn't her burden to read.
The handwriting hit me first.
Sharp. Aggressive slant. The 'o's perfectly round, almost obsessively so. The way the 't's were crossed with a violent slash.
I knew it. God help me, I knew it. I'd seen it on legal notepads, on grocery lists, on the notes he'd leave when he was angry. Each letter was a small act of anger.
Carter's handwriting.
The message was short.
My condolences for your late wife. I'll be visiting soon.
The edges of my vision went gray. My lungs seized, not a gasp, just a complete cessation of breathing. The card fluttered from my numb fingers onto the marble counter. I heard it land, heard Mrs. Rosa saying my name, but I couldn’t speak back.
He's out. He was here.
The thoughts were bullet points of pure terror. My body moved before my mind could catch up. I stumbled out of the kitchen, down the hall, toward Jack's office.
I didn't knock. I shoved the door open.
He was at his desk, on a video call with a room full of serious-looking people on the large monitor. "...Q3 projections clearly indicate..."
He stopped mid-sentence. His gaze snapped to me, and I watched his entire demeanor change. The controlled CEO vanished.
"We'll reconvene." The words were steel. He hit a button, and the screen went black, cutting someone off mid-protest.
"What is it?"
I couldn't speak. My throat had closed completely, my tongue petrified in my mouth. I just held out the florist's card, my hand trembling so violently that the card shook like a leaf in a storm.
He took it, his fingers brushing mine, warm.
His eyes scanned the two lines, and I watched the transformation happen in real time.
The color drained from his face, starting at his forehead and spreading down.
His face tensed up, and I could see his grip on the card.
His eyes went from concerned to dangerous in the space of a heartbeat.
His calm demeanor was replaced by a grim, calculating coldness that was somehow more frightening than any anger I'd ever witnessed.
This was the Jack Spencer who built billion-dollar empires. Who destroyed competitors with a signature. Who could ruin lives with a phone call.
And he was looking at that card like it was a declaration of war.
He didn't question it. He didn't ask if I was sure. He picked up his phone and hit a speed-dial number.
"James." His voice was flat, to the point. "A delivery just arrived at my home. White tulips. A card. Handwritten. It says, 'My condolences for your late wife. I'll be visiting soon.'"
He put the phone on speaker, setting it on the desk. I could hear typing through the line, James accessing something. The seconds ticked by, each one an eternity. I wrapped my arms around myself, holding the pieces of my composure together by sheer force of will.
James's voice came back, grim and heavy.
"Jack. I just accessed the system. Three days ago.
Carter Wilson was being transferred to a different facility for a psych eval.
The transport was ambushed on a rural road.
Two guards were injured. He's gone. The U.S.
Marshals are issuing a nationwide alert.
He's considered armed and extremely dangerous. "
Three days.
Reality hit me like a fist. Three days he'd been out. Three days of watching. Planning. Finding me. Sending flowers to mock Jack, to let me know he could reach me anywhere.
A high-pitched whine started in my ears. The room felt insubstantial, like I was looking at it through warped glass.
"Why didn't I know?" Jack's voice was a low growl, dangerous and controlled. The kind of quiet that was more terrifying than shouting.
"It was kept quiet to avoid panic and to give the marshals a head start without tipping him off through media coverage. His name wasn't released to the public. They were keeping this under wraps," James paused. "Jack, I'm so sorry. If I'd known sooner—"
"Not your fault," Jack cut him off, his tone making it clear the blame lay elsewhere. With the marshals. With the system. With the guards who'd failed to keep Carter locked away.