But just as we’re coming up on the anniversary of Chavi’s death, we’re also coming up on the anniversary of his, so marigolds are a little more painful today, the wound a little more jagged.
It’s warm enough for jeans and a fleece, with a scarf draped around my neck just in case. The fleece is bright red and used to be Chavi’s, and it’s so much louder than anything I usually like to wear. There’s something comforting about it, though. It’s as red as my lipstick, and the scarf is a deep, cool emerald like Mum favors, and it’s like wearing pieces of them.
Only not in a creepy Ed Gein sort of way, because no.
I’m aware of the looks the vets are giving each other long before they finally designate someone to ask about it. It’s Pierce who clears his throat, looking steadily down at the board between us. “You all right, Blue Girl?”
“Coming up on a couple of painful dates,” I answer, because it’s true and that’s about as far as I want to get into it right now. Gunny knows I have a murdered sister. They all know I’ve mentioned a mother, but never a father. We wear our scars, and sometimes the pain is as much fact as memory.
“Landon hasn’t been back.”
I drop my hands to my lap. “Is this something I should be apologizing for?”
“No!” he squawks, and Jorge and Steven both shake their heads at him. “No,” he says again, more calmly. “We just wanted to check if he was bothering you elsewhere.”
“I haven’t seen him.” But that makes me remember Finney’s concern. “Have any of you?”
They all shake their heads.
Tapping my queen across a three-square diagonal to where she can be easily captured, I put my hands back in my lap. Pierce gives me a flat look, but accepts the sacrifice. It’s as good a way to change the subject as any.
“How much longer you with us, Blue Girl?” asks Corgi.
“Not quite six weeks. We’re neck deep in the Sorting of Things, getting rid of a lot of things we’ve been hauling move to move for no apparent reason.”
“Women are so sentimental,” Happy sighs.
Yelp elbows him.
“More lazy than sentimental,” I tell him with a small smile. “We just move so often it never seemed worth unpacking everything, and if we weren’t unpacking, why go through the boxes?”
“But if you’re not using it, why keep it?”
“Because the important things were mixed in with the other stuff; we couldn’t just throw out the whole box.”
“Don’t argue with a woman, Hap,” urges Corgi. “Not even a younger one. Their logic ain’t like ours.”
Gunny wakes to a pavilion full of laughter, and smiles at me even as he blinks sleep from his eyes. “You’re good for these weary old souls, Miss Priya.”
“You’re all good for me,” I murmur, and it’s true. With the exception of Landon, this is a safe place, full of people who make me feel not just accepted but welcome, scars and scary smiles and all.
After losing spectacularly to Pierce—and isn’t he disgruntled about that—I play a quiet game with Gunny, then wander around with my camera in hand. The FBI has the pictures they can use; I want more for me, for when I’m gone.
My camera’s still up around my neck when I walk up to Kroger. I can see Joshua walking out, in yet another fisherman sweater and no coat. I take a couple of pictures, because he’s been kind without being pushy. When he notices me, he smiles, but doesn’t stop. There’s no sign of Landon, so I get my drink and head home. I still pay attention as I walk, but I don’t feel the lingering discomfort of anyone’s eyes on me.
I shoot Finney and Sterling texts to let them know that the vets haven’t seen Landon, then scroll down to Eddison’s contact and press “call.” I read about the attack on Keely, saw the picture of Inara; I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to write her about it or let her take the lead on whether or not to mention it. Given that Eddison spent half the weekend texting me rants about the Nationals’ spring training roster, he’s still too pissed to be finished processing.
“I’m not sure if that’s good news or not,” he says when I tell him about Landon. “I’m glad he’s not bothering you, but this makes it a hell of a lot harder to find him.”
“Why are you so sure it’s him?”
“Why are you so sure it’s not?” he counters.
“Did he strike you as being smart enough?”
“Socially incompetent doesn’t mean unintelligent.”
“It does mean he’d be noticed. If you were a teenage girl, would you be inclined to meet him at night?”
“If I were a teenage girl,” he echoes. “I think I’ve had nightmares that started out that way.”
“Well, here’s another nightmare for you,” I mutter, coming up to the doorstep. “There’s been another delivery in the past couple of hours.”
He swears softly, a solid string of sharp syllables, sounding stressed and stretched too thin. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” There are three flowers on the list with h names, and honeysuckle is the only one I can keep straight. “Something tropical? Looks like it belongs on a sunscreen bottle.” The individual blossoms are big, with a handful of large, frilled petals overlapping slightly on the edges and a long, long stamen sticking out like a pollen-beaded erection. The petals are dark purple at the heart, brightening quickly into a bold, orange-tinted scarlet, then to a cheerful yellow on the edges. From above, they look like they belong on Fantasia. I switch him to speakerphone so I can snap pictures and text them.
“Hibiscus,” he says after a minute, husky with resignation. “Do you feel safe, Priya?”
“Nothing’s gone inside the house so far.”
“Priya.”
“Vic’s rubbing off on you.”
“Do. You. Feel. Safe.”
“Safe enough,” I tell him. “I promise. I’ll lock the door, I’ll stay away from the windows, I’ll keep one of the good knives in hand.”
“Do you even know where your good knives are?”
“Sure, Mum found them yesterday. They’re sitting on the counter until we get enough stuff for a full box.”
There’s a soft slap of flesh audible through the phone; I suspect he just smacked himself in the forehead. “All right. Finney will stay with you until your mother is home. Or Sterling and Archer, whoever comes out. Don’t argue on this. They will stay.”
“Wasn’t going to argue.” With the way all three agents drive, it takes less an hour from the Denver office. Mum won’t be home for three. At some point, it feels like they should be able to hand things off to the local police, get the lab reports from them, but I don’t know the rules for that.
“I’m going to call Finney. You call me back if you need to, okay? Let me know you’re still doing okay?”
“I’ll check the feed, get the delivery cued up for them.”
“Good.”
I settle into the couch with one knife on the padded arm and another on the coffee table, my computer open on my lap. I was only gone two, maybe two and a half hours, so the delivery footage should be easy to isolate.
Should be.
The only person I see on the camera after the departure of the agents is me, leaving and coming back. The delivery doesn’t seem to exist. I scan back through, more slowly, and find ten minutes where the feed is frozen. Just stuck on a single frame. The cameras are hooked to our Wi-Fi, which is supposed to be a secured network. It shouldn’t be hackable.
I check the time stamps around the freeze. Oh God. The flowers were left right before I got home.
I don’t remember reaching for one of the knives but there it is, my fingers white-knuckled around the handle. I didn’t pass any pedestrians or cyclists, so whoever left these had to be in one of the cars that went by me.
Don’t ask me why this is more frightening than being home alone when they get delivered. Maybe because when I’m out walking, I’m more vulnerable. In here I have weapons—knives, blunt objects, Chavi’s bat from softball—but out there I only have pepper spray.
I should be safe until the flowers finish.
If I keep repeating it, maybe I’ll believe it again.
APRIL