Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
The house is silent except for the soft creak of the old leather armchair beneath me. I'm curled up with Nine Perfect Strangers, savoring the rare solitude. Kendra's at work—some admin job downtown—and Reeves is holding down the fort at the pool hall.
I've been devouring this book all morning. Liane Moriarty never disappoints. I know they made it into a series with Nicole Kidman, but I refuse to watch it until I finish the book. I need to imagine the characters on my own terms first, conjure the spa, the strangers, the creeping dread.
Though I'll admit—I keep picturing Nicole as Masha anyway. Can't help it.
The doorbell shatters the quiet.
I jolt, nearly dropping the book. My pulse kicks up for no good reason. Probably a package for Reeves. Maybe something for Kendra.
I don’t get up. I’m scared shitless. I immediately think of Daniel. I’m frozen to my chair for a long beat, my mind whirling.
I suck in a long, deep breath.
This is ridiculous.
I reluctantly get up and head very slowly to the bay window, the one that looks out toward the front entrance. I peek tentatively through the blinds. I see a dark sedan leave, not Daniel’s car. There’s no evidence of anyone on the property.
I then make my way to the front door, slippered feet trudging along the hardwood floor. I carefully open the door and finally venture a peek outside.
There’s no one there.
Just a bouquet on the stoop.
Black roses.
My stomach drops. I feel sick.
I stare at them as if they might suddenly lunge at me.
The bouquet is stunning in the worst possible way.
I take it inside.
Twelve stems, wrapped in glossy black paper and tied with a silk black ribbon.
The roses themselves are perfect—too perfect—their petals thick and velvety, soft purple edges, unnaturally dark.
Not wilted or spray-painted. These are real black roses, the kind that cost a fortune, cultivated in some specialized greenhouse by people who know exactly what they're doing.
Each bloom is in full flower, open and shameless. Droplets of water cling to the petals like tiny diamonds, catching the weak November sunlight. Someone misted them recently. Someone handled them with care.
There's a small card tucked into the stems. Cream-colored, elegant. My fingers hover over it.
I don't want to touch it.
But I do.
The handwriting is immaculate—flowing, deliberate cursive that belongs in a calligraphy textbook.
"Every rose has its thorn. And thorns draw blood. I haven't forgotten you, Liza. I'll never forget you. I'll never forgive you either. "
No signature.
I drop the card like it's on fire.
My hands shake as I scan the street. Nothing. Just parked cars and empty sidewalks. A neighbor across the way sits on his porch, oblivious.
Daniel.
It has to be.
The letter was creepy enough—that rambling manifesto about karma and punishment. But this? This seems even more calculated. Specific. He knows Reeves is at work. He knows I'm alone.
He wants to scare me—that much is obvious. He wants me to feel hunted, watched, vulnerable. He wants me to know that despite everything, despite the distance I've put between us, he's still out there. Still thinking about me. Still obsessed.
He wants me to understand that he hasn't moved on, that he won't move on, that in his twisted mind I still belong to him somehow.
He wants me to know he's still a very real threat, not just some fading memory I can dismiss or forget about.
And most of all, he wants me to suffer—to feel even a fraction of the pain and humiliation he thinks I caused him when I finally escaped.
I grab the bouquet by its stems and shove it into the trash bin beside the porch. The thorns bite into my palm through the paper wrapping. I hiss, yank my hand back. A thin line of blood wells up across my thumb.
Thorns draw blood.
I slam the lid shut, heart hammering.
Inside, I lock the door. Chain it. Check the windows. My phone's on the coffee table where I left it, screen dark. I snatch it up, thumb hovering over Julian's name.
But what do I say? Hey, my psycho ex sent me creepy flowers.
I text Colleen instead.
Got another gift from you-know-who. Black roses this time. I'm officially freaked out.
The reply comes fast.
That's not a gift. That's a threat. You need to tell someone. Police. Julian. ANYONE.
I stare at her message.
She's right.
But admitting it makes it real.
Glossy, dark petals. Too perfect. Too deliberate.
They clearly were not from Julian.
Julian would send wildflowers. Sunflowers. Something bright and unexpected.
Not this.
And that note.
My breath comes too fast, shallow and ragged. I press my back into the chair—the one where I sat just five minutes ago, quietly enjoying my book—and I slide down until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest.
I thought moving in with Reeves would buy me distance. Safety. A buffer between me and whatever twisted game Daniel's playing.
But he's not done.
My psycho ex just sent me I WANT YOU DEAD flowers. No big deal.
I close my eyes, force myself to breathe.
In. Out.
In. Out.
The black roses sit in the bin on the porch like a threat.
And I know—deep in my bones—this is only the beginning.
Later, I go back out and drag the bouquet inside. Can't leave it on the porch for some reason… I just can’t stop thinking about it.
The roses sit on Reeves' kitchen table now, mocking me. Black petals curling at the edges, thorns gleaming under the overhead light.
I pull out a chair. Sit. Stare.
My vision blurs.
I'm crying before I realize it—hot, angry tears that streak my cheeks and drip onto the table. I swipe at them with the back of my hand, but they keep coming.
Pathetic.
That's what Daniel would say. You're pathetic, Liza. Weak. Dramatic.
The front door opens.
"Liza?"
Reeves' voice cuts through the silence. Heavy boots on hardwood. He rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops cold.
"What the hell happened?"
I can't speak. I just gesture at the roses.
He crosses the room in three strides, picks up the card, reads it. His jaw tightens.
"That motherfucker."
"He won't stop." My voice cracks. "He's never going to stop."
Reeves crumples the card in his fist. "I know exactly what'll make you feel better."
The fire pit crackles in the backyard, flames licking up toward the darkening sky. Reeves tosses the roses in one by one, black petals curling, hissing, turning to ash.
I watch them burn.
Each one feels like a small victory.
When the last rose disappears into the flames, Reeves hands me a beer. I twist off the cap, take a long pull. The cold bite grounds me.
"Thanks," I say, my voice still rough around the edges.
"For this. For everything." I gesture toward the fire, where the last remnants of Daniel's twisted gift are being consumed by flames.
"The job at the pool hall. Letting me crash here when I had nowhere else to go.
For protecting me from him." I pause, taking another pull from my beer, letting the cold liquid soothe my throat.
When I glance at him, the firelight catches the concern etched into his features. "You're a good friend, Reeves. A really good friend."
He shrugs, takes a swig of his beer. "You'd do the same."
We stand there in silence, watching the fire.
Then Reeves speaks. "I'm gonna talk to him."
My stomach drops. "No. Don't."
"He can't keep doing this shit, Liza."
"He's crazy, Reeves. Seriously, he's not right in the head. I mean it." My fingers wrap around his forearm, grip tight enough that I can feel the warmth of his skin through the flannel. "You have no idea what he's actually capable of—what he might do if you provoke him."
"I don't care."
"I do, though. I care." My voice shakes, trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady. The words come out barely above a whisper, desperate and pleading. "Please. Just—don't. Promise me you won't do anything stupid."
He looks at me, firelight dancing in his eyes. Then he exhales, long and slow.
He doesn't promise a thing.
I lean against him, my head pressed against his bulky arm, and we watch the roses turn to nothing.
Kendra's car pulls into the driveway just as the last embers die in the fire pit. She finds us in the backyard, her purse slung over one shoulder, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Her smile fades the second she sees us standing there with beers in hand.
"What's going on?"
Reeves glances at me, then back at her. "We need to talk."
We move inside. Kendra sets her purse on the counter and crosses her arms. "Talk."
I tell her. About the letter. The roses. Daniel.
Her face drains of color.
"Wait. So this guy knows you're here? He knows where we live?"
"I don't know how he—"
"Jesus, Liza." She presses her fingers to her temples. "You said he was your ex. You didn't say he was stalking you."
Reeves steps forward. "Kendra—"
"No." She holds up a hand. "I get that you're trying to help her, Reeves. I do. But this is serious. What if he shows up here? What if he does something? To any of us?"
My chest tightens. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't think—"
"That's the problem." Her voice sharpens. "You didn't think. And now we're all at risk."
Reeves' jaw clenches. "Don't talk to her like that."
"Are you kidding me right now?" Kendra turns on him, eyes flashing. "She brought this to our door, Reeves. Our home. Where we sleep."
"She had nowhere else to go."
"And I'm sorry for that. I am. But I can't—we can't—"
"Stop." My voice cracks. "Please, just stop." I look between them, guilt twisting in my stomach. "I'll move. I should've already. I don't want to cause problems for you guys."
Reeves shakes his head. "No. You're not going anywhere."
"Reeves—"
"She's staying." His tone leaves no room for argument. "That's final."
Kendra stares at him, stunned. Then she grabs her purse and walks out without another word.
The bedroom door slams.
I stand there, frozen, the weight of what I've done crushing down on me.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
Reeves exhales and rubs a hand over his beard. "Not your fault."
But it is.
It really, really is.