Chapter 23 Ella
Ella
“Morning, Ella. Morning, Motordog!” Sandra beams at me from behind the counter. “It’s not Sunday; how come you’re both here?”
Since moving home, I returned to my original flower shop.
This was the same shop my mom bought flowers from, and we came here every week when she was alive.
Coming back here always feels like home.
Like between the bunches and buckets, I might stumble upon my mom sneaking flowers, apologizing for taking so long.
I approach the counter, clutching the orchids from the porch. “I know, but I was wondering, did someone come in yesterday and buy these?”
Sandra puts down her pen and takes the flowers, inspecting the wrapping. “It doesn’t look like our style. Have you been cheating on me, Ella Gibson?”
I smile. “They were delivered yesterday, but there was no card.”
“I’m sorry, honey. We don’t carry this kind of wrapping. It must have been from another place.”
I’d thought as much. I’m not even sure what I would have done if Sandra had confirmed it—watched the CCTV and hoped to see a ghost?
“Got a secret admirer?” Sandra asks.
“Or a stalker. Depends how you look at it.”
I buy another orchid and drive to the cemetery.
While I visit every day, I usually only bring flowers once a week, so when I arrive, the orchid I’d placed on Asher’s grave is still fresh.
I place the newer one down anyway, and I spread out the blanket I always bring. I sit, Motor curling up at my side.
“Is this from you?” I ask the headstone, holding up the orchid. “How much are flowers in heaven?”
“Expensive, Ella. Say thank you.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
“Got another boyfriend yet?”
“I’ve got several,” I say, fully aware I’m talking to myself, but preferring to imagine a conversation than ramble on one-sided about my total lack of a life. “They’re all extremely handsome.”
“Better looking than me? I doubt that.”
“Arrogance isn’t sexy, Asher.” I stroke Motor’s head. He’s staring at the headstone. “Besides, it doesn’t matter how good-looking they are. They didn’t build me bookcases.”
I can almost hear him laughing.
“Speaking of which, are you ever gonna go back and see them? I spent hours on those things. You still have to put them in the author's hometown order, remember?”
I play with my fingers. “I’ve been busy.”
“With all your boyfriends?”
“With missing you, jackass,” I mumble. “Crying takes up a lot of my time, you know.”
I close my eyes when I say it and picture his face the day he’d died. The way he’d looked at me.
“I don’t like the thought of you crying over me, Ella.”
I shrug, tears in my eyes. “Tough. I’m getting good at it.”
“Good at what?”
I wipe my eyes quickly and turn. A familiar blonde woman stands close. She’s wearing what looks like a designer coat, the collar heavy with white fur, the dark material hugging her body.
Twisting on the blanket to get a better look, I say, “You’re Monty.”
“The one and only.” Her hair is twisted into a low bun, and she looks almost angelic. Her eyes flick to Asher’s headstone. “So, it’s true, then. He’s really dead.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I had no phone with his contacts, and I didn’t know who to call … you really didn’t know?” Monty shakes her head, and my heart breaks all over again. Guilt twists in my stomach. “I’m so sorry.”
Silence falls between us, Monty’s eyes fixed on the headstone. “Can I sit with you?”
I nod. She sits beside me, brows pulled together in clear annoyance.
“This is like fucking camping,” she mumbles. “Why didn’t you bring a chair?”
“Glamping at a graveyard is probably frowned upon.”
“Yes, well.” Monty sighs. “Maybe that’s why people are always crying here. A glass of wine and a heated blanket could go a long way.”
I actually laugh. This woman is strange.
I don’t remember too much of our interaction in the lobby, but I know she was found drugged and unconscious in Gable’s apartment after everything that happened.
My dad told me her story about working with computers checked out, and that she returned to England almost immediately after Asher died, but something has never added up for me.
I may have been a little tipsy that day, but Asher seemed tense around Monty. Gable had, too, and I have a feeling it takes a lot to rattle Gable Flynn.
I cast glances at the woman beside me. She might be the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in real life, with perfect cheekbones and bright green eyes. She certainly looks the picture of innocence but radiates something totally different.
Power. Self-assurance.
Danger.
In the six months since Asher died, no one has even attempted to take my life. Whatever bounty he mentioned must no longer exist. Maybe it had been cancelled or expired after Asher’s death, or maybe they’re biding their time, and this is it for me.
I may have invited my killer to sit with me.
“You worked with Asher, right?” I ask, my eyes now on Asher’s name.
“I did.”
A simple response. Maybe she doesn’t talk much. Or maybe she doesn’t talk much with her targets.
Maybe she’s grieving, Ella.
“Are you here to kill me?”
Her silence sends tiptoes of anticipation down my spine. The breeze picks up a strand of her hair, and she tucks it behind her ear.
“No,” Monty says quietly. “I came to see Asher.”
Am I na?ve for believing another killer? Probably. But I do, anyway. We sit quietly, me stroking Motor’s head, Monty leaning back on her hands and staring at the headstone.
Then something occurs to me.
“Were the flowers from you?”
Monty finally locks eyes with me. “Flowers?”
“Asher knew I loved orchids, and I found one on my porch last night. It wasn’t you?”
It feels like too much of a coincidence for it not to be. To have two reminders of Asher in less than eighteen hours is strange.
“It wasn’t me.” She sits up and dusts off her hands. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“Why?”
“Because whether they want to get to Gable, get your bounty, or get that hard drive, you’re in danger. And Asher would want you safe.”
So, the bounty is still on my head. How is that possible?
Six months and not a single attempt on my life.
Either assassins are lazy as hell, or they suck at their jobs.
Sure, I’m living with the chief of police, but I still go places alone.
Unless my dad is having me followed more than he’s let on, which is always a possibility.
Maybe the police presence is keeping me safer than I realized.
“What hard drive?” I ask. “Is that the thing Barnaby had?”
“The less you know, the better, Bambi,” Monty says. “Come on, I’ll walk you and the mutt back to your car. I don’t want Asher haunting me if someone slits your throat.” She stands. “And this coat is Prada. Blood will never come out of it.”
“How … sweet.” I stand and fold the blanket. I touch the headstone once, squeezing the smooth edges of the marble.
We walk back to the parking lot in silence. Motor slinks sadly by my side, head down, not even sniffing the grass. He hops into the front seat of my car robotically and sighs before I close the door.
I need to cheer this damn dog up.
“Listen,” Monty says. “I’m not a sentimental person. I don’t believe in heartfelt rubbish, and I certainly don’t like you, but I know Asher did, for some reason. So don’t die, okay?”
It feels like talking to Gable, and I suddenly miss his annoying ass more than ever.
“I’ll try not to die,” I say.
“Good. At least I’ve said it. Now if you do, my conscience is clear.” Monty looks up at the sky. “Hear that, Asher? That’s how much I love you, you tool.”
I smile. For someone who doesn’t believe in heartfelt bullshit, she’s certainly acting like someone who does.
“Don’t smile at me, heathen,” Monty says, narrowing her eyes. “Who knows how long this will last? Next time you see me …” She runs her finger across her throat, but I grin. “What? Stop smiling.”
I yank Monty into a hug and she freezes, keeping her arms straight at her sides.
“I think you like me,” I say, pulling back from the embrace.
“You stole my man. Maybe I’ve cut your brakes.”
“No, you haven’t.” I open the door to my car.
Monty huffs. “Maybe I’ve wired explosives to your car!”
I climb in and close the door, starting the engine and putting the window down. “If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”
Monty crosses her arms and scowls. “I’m good, Bambi. Remember—don’t die.”