1. Lilah
CHAPTER ONE
lilah
Present Day
Boston, Massachusetts
I'm awake before the alarm; I always am now. I lie still for a second, staring at the water stain on the ceiling above my bed, listening to the sounds around me: traffic already starting outside, the sound of a door closing down the hall, a dog barking on the floor above me. My apartment is silent, there’s nothing that shouldn't be here.
I inhale deeply as I slide out of bed. The first thing I do is check the front door, ensuring the deadbolt is thrown with the chain still on.
Once I’ve double checked those, I test the handle, just to make sure.
It’s become a ritual every night, and every morning is the same.
My brain needs the reassurance that everything is locked up tight and that I’m safe.
I then move toward the windows; they’re both latched.
Once that’s done, I can finally start my day.
Ever since Lucy died, fear grips me daily. I jump at every noise, and I no longer see the good in people, everyone is a threat, someone who could harm me just as Evan did. My head knows that I’m in Boston, but sometimes, I still feel trapped in that cabin.
I get dressed with the bedroom door closed; not because anyone is here, but because I feel safer doing so.
My wardrobe has changed since that dreadful day.
Before, I used to wear whatever I liked, anything that would make me feel pretty, but now, it's always long sleeves that I pull down past my wrists. The first and only time I didn’t wear them, I got so many stares at the scars that I now bear, that it sent me spiraling.
Since that day, long sleeves have become my safety net.
While I wait for the coffee to brew, I stand at the window, watching the street below. The woman who lives two floors below is out walking her golden retriever, the café across the road has a line out the door already, everyone wanting their morning fix.
I scan the street for dangers, ensuring there’s no blacked out sedan parked on the corner, or a man in a hoodie and baseball cap waiting against the street lamp.
Seeing that it’s just normal people going about their normal, everyday life has me relaxing.
I take a bite of my bagel and enjoy watching everyone go past.
My apartment isn’t much, but it has everything I need: one bedroom, one bathroom, a tiny kitchen; I don’t need anything else. I still haven't hung anything on the walls, because it doesn't feel permanent; nothing ever does anymore.
I grab my coffee and sling my bag over my shoulder. Before I zip it closed, I check everything one last time: keys in the front pocket, phone fully charged, my wallet, and a full can of pepper spray.
I was told I wouldn’t need it here, but I carry it anyway—yet another safety net that I need.
Crossing to the front door, I look through the peephole; the hallway is empty. I unlock the door and step outside, pulling it shut behind me, the deadbolt clicks into place, and I test the handle once, then once more—just to be sure. It’s time to go to work.
The apartment opposite mine opens. I instinctively take a step back as a man fills the doorway. He’s tall with dark hair that’s almost shaved, but his jaw hasn't seen a razor in a few days. He’s wearing jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a leather cut over the top.
He closes his door, locks it, then looks up and our eyes meet. He gives me a small nod. I nod back before quickly dropping my gaze.
I hear his footsteps as he heads for the stairs without a word, and I wait until they've faded before I move.
By the time I reach the florist, Louise is already outside putting out the signboard. "Morning," she calls.
"Morning." I unlatch the door, shoulder it open when the latch sticks, and shove my way inside.
"Morning, sweetheart." Cara is already in the back, stripping the leaves from a bucket of roses. She glances up over the top of her glasses as I hang my coat on the hook by the door. "You're two minutes early."
I grin at her. "You noticed."
"I always notice."
She does. Cara notices everything; she’s extremely observant.
I pull my apron over my head and tie it behind my back. "The dahlias came in?" I ask.
She jerks her chin toward a stack of boxes waiting beside the workbench. "Thought I'd save the fun job for you."
I smile despite myself. "You're too kind."
She snorts. "Don't get used to it."
"Wedding consultation at two," Louise says from the office doorway. "The bride changes her mind every time she visits; we’re on visit number four, so fair warning."
"What's she going to change it to this time?"
"Last week it was all white. This week apparently she's considering burgundy. I'd put money on her going back to white." She disappears back inside.
The morning slips by. An older woman can't decide between cream ribbon and white for a sympathy wreath; she apologizes three times before settling on cream. I tell her not to worry. She isn't the first person grief has made indecisive, and she won’t be the last.
Two delivery drivers come and go, Cara argues with a supplier over the phone, Louise serves customers, and I lose myself in flowers. It's quiet; I like quiet, it keeps me busy and my mind active, so I don’t think about the past.
The bell above the door chimes, and I look up to see a man in a navy suit walk in carrying a battered leather briefcase. He seems to be in his mid-forties and looks to be in a hurry.
"Sunflowers," he says. "Whatever looks good, they’re for my wife."
"How many?"
"A dozen?" He shrugs. "She likes yellow."
I smile and turn to the bucket behind me, sorting through the stems until I find the best ones with big heads, bright petals, and no browning around the edges.
"Actually..." He leans across the counter. "Those ones, at the back."
His hand comes into my space; he’s too close, and my body reacts before my brain catches up.
I jerk backwards, and my hip slams into the shelving unit behind me.
A bucket tips sideways, sunflowers spilling across the floor as water splashes over my shoes.
For a second, all I can hear is my own heartbeat.
The man snatches his hand back. "Jesus, I'm sorry." His eyes widen. "I wasn't trying to—"
"No, I'm sorry." I crouch before he can say anything else, gathering stems off the floor, and those three seconds are what I need.
I breathe through my nose, count it out, and feel my heartbeat start to slow.
By the time I stand back up, I have it mostly under control. "I'll get those ones for you."
He waits at the counter while I wrap them. He doesn’t say anything, which I’m grateful for, but I can feel his gaze on me. Once I have it all rung up, he hands over his credit card and I take his payment.
“Thank you, I hope you have a wonderful day,” I say, handing back his card, thankful that my voice sounds relatively normal.
“Uh, yes, you too. Thanks,” he says as he reaches for the flowers and leaves the store.
Cara doesn't say anything as she appears from the back room; she simply places a fresh mug of coffee beside me before disappearing again. I gratefully wrap my still-shaking hands around it.
I stay at the workbench for the rest of the morning, stripping leaves from roses and trimming stems that don't need trimming.
My heart eventually slows, and my breathing follows.
He was buying sunflowers for his wife; he never meant to frighten me, I know that, I just wish my body did.
I eat lunch on Louise’s front stoop; she lives next door to the florist shop.
I make myself do this every day even when I don't want to. Omen, the motorcycle man who saved me on the road after the cabin, told me, early on, that shrinking your world down to the size of a room is how fear wins. I come outside, sit on the step, eat whatever I brought, and I watch the street. I enjoy people watching; it helps me remain calm, and I get to see everyone who’s around as well as learn body language.
I can tell someone who’s up to no good just by how they walk and how they take in their surroundings.
I'm halfway through my sandwich when I see it. A dark SUV parked across from the florist, engine off, and windows tinted dark enough that I can't see inside. It wasn't there when I arrived this morning.
I finish my sandwich, heart racing, and I go back inside.
It’s mid-afternoon when I take an arrangement to the front step for collection, and I see that the SUV is gone.
I’m able to breathe a little easier. I hate when I get worked up, especially over something as simple as an SUV.
Boston is full of dark SUVs, people park, and people wait. Not every car is watching me.
I need to remind myself of that, because forgetting means working myself up into a tizzy.
At four, the afternoon delivery arrives—two hours later than expected but at least it turned up. I carry the delivery to the front of the shop, my gaze going to the door and beyond before I even realize what I'm doing. The SUV is back, in the exact same place as before, its engine off.
My stomach drops. God, why do I react so badly at the sight of a blacked-out vehicle? One second I'm moving the delivery, and the next my hands are flat against the workbench in the back of the shop, my breathing too fast, my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest.
Louise finds me there ten minutes later; she doesn't ask questions, she just hands me a list of tomorrow's deliveries that need confirming, and I take it gratefully because a task is something to hold onto.
The calls I made to confirm deliveries provided a much-needed distraction for the remaining work hours, and while I did check outside for the SUV a few times, it was gone, thank goodness, I was able to stay calm and collected as I made the calls.
"Wedding consultation went well," Louise says, pulling on her coat. "She's going with the white. I've already updated the order."
I grin. "You called it."
"I've been doing this long enough that I know what a bride wants." She picks up her keys. "You all right locking up?"
I nod. "Always."