Chapter 1 - Poppy #2
He's looking down at the body with an expression I don't have words for. Peaceful. Satisfied. Like a man who's just finished a difficult task and is pleased with his work.
Like a man who feels no guilt at all.
Then he looks up.
Our eyes meet.
I wait for the panic. The calculation. The predator realizing it's been seen.
Instead, he tilts his head. Studies me. The same way he studied me in the ballroom, but different now. More intense. More focused.
The corner of his mouth lifts. Not quite a smile. Something stranger. Something that looks almost like delight.
He doesn't move toward me. Doesn't reach for me. Doesn't speak.
He just waits. Like he wants to see what I'll do.
I run.
I don't know how I find my way out. The corridors blur past me, all stone and iron and serpents, and my feet know where to go even though my mind has stopped working. I'm gasping for air, sobbing without tears, my vision narrowed to a single point: escape, escape, escape.
I pass staff members who don't stop me. Guests who don't see me. I'm invisible, I'm no one, I'm just the help fleeing like a startled animal.
The service entrance. The gravel lot. My van, sitting where I left it a lifetime ago.
I fumble for my keys. Drop them. Pick them up with hands that won't stop shaking. Drop them again.
He's coming. He's right behind you. He's going to—
I don't let myself finish the thought. I get the door open, throw myself inside, slam it shut, lock it.
The parking lot is empty. No one followed me.
But I don't feel safe. I don't think I'll ever feel safe again.
I start the engine and drive. Too fast, gravel spraying, out through the gate that opens without me stopping. The dark tunnel of trees swallows me and spits me out onto the main road.
I don't breathe properly until I hit the highway.
***
Home.
The word feels wrong. My apartment—cramped, familiar, filled with flowers and half-finished projects—doesn't feel like a sanctuary anymore. It feels like a place he could find if he wanted to. A place with a flimsy lock and a window that doesn't close all the way.
I sit on my couch in the dark. I don't turn on the lights. Some animal part of me believes that darkness means safety, that if I can't be seen, I can't be found.
My phone is in my hand. The screen glows, too bright, illuminating my face in the shadows. I've typed 911 three times now. Each time, I stare at the numbers. Each time, I delete them.
What would I even say?
Hello, I witnessed a murder. The killer is Gabriel Ambrose. Yes, the billionaire. Yes, the one who donated ten million dollars to children's hospitals last year. No, I don't have evidence. No, I didn't take pictures. No, I can't prove anything.
I can already hear the skepticism. The polite questions that really mean are you sure, miss? And had you been drinking? And do you have any history of mental illness?
And even if they believed me—even if by some miracle they took my statement and opened an investigation—what then? Gabriel Ambrose has lawyers. Teams of them. He has connections, influence, power that I can barely comprehend. He could make evidence disappear. He could make me disappear.
He let me go.
That's the thing I keep coming back to, the thing that makes no sense. He saw me. He watched me run. And he didn't follow.
Why?
If I were a threat—if my testimony could destroy him—he would have silenced me. A man who can kill that calmly, that methodically, wouldn't hesitate to eliminate a witness. I'm nobody. A florist who can barely make rent. It would be easy.
But he let me go.
Which means either he's not worried about what I saw... or he wanted me to see it.
The second option is insane. Why would anyone want a witness to murder?
But I can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me. Not with panic. Not with a threat. With curiosity. Like I was unexpected. Like I was interesting.
Like I was something he wanted to examine more closely.
I sit in the dark for hours. Every creak of the building makes me flinch. Every car that passes on the street below sends my heart racing.
I don't call the police.
I tell myself it's because I'm being smart. Strategic. I need to think this through, figure out my options, not act rashly.
But underneath that rational explanation, there's something else. Something I don't want to look at directly.
The way I didn't scream.
The way I stood there, frozen, watching him watch me.
The way his expression—that peace, that satisfaction—felt familiar somehow. Like I was looking at something I recognized but couldn't name.
Like some part of me understood.
I curl up on the couch, pulling a blanket over myself even though I'm not cold. I stare at the ceiling, at the water stain shaped vaguely like a bird, and I wait for morning.
Sleep doesn't come.
Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. The blood on his hands. The way he tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve.
What are you? I asked him silently, in that frozen moment before I ran.
But maybe the real question is different.
What am I, that I didn't look away?