The house sat at the end of a winding gravel path, tucked behind a screen of yew trees. It looked peaceful—too peaceful, Esme thought, for what had happened inside its walls.
The widow had chosen white lilies for the funeral. Esme had arranged them herself—precisely, gently, without a hint of irony. The scent had clung to her fingers for hours after.
She adjusted her silk scarf and knocked.
The door creaked open to reveal a woman with weary eyes and a tremble in her hand. "You're the florist," she said softly.
"Yes," Esme replied with a warm smile. "I just wanted to check on you. I know funerals can be…" she let her voice drift into softness, "…a blur."
The woman blinked rapidly. "That's… kind of you. Come in?"
The interior was quiet, heavy with the ghost of a man no one missed. Photographs were missing from the mantle. A child's toy sat abandoned on the couch. Esme's eyes caught a small girl peeking around the corner of the hallway. She gave the child a smile and turned her attention back to the widow.
"Everyone loved the flowers," the woman said, seating herself slowly in a delicate armchair. "They said they'd never seen such perfect lilies."
Esme folded her hands in her lap, watching the woman closely. No bruises today. A small comfort. "I'm glad."
There was a pause. Silence stretched between them, filled only by the ticking of a wall clock.
"You're safe now," Esme said quietly. It wasn't a question.
The woman looked at her sharply, something unreadable flashing behind her eyes. Then, slowly, she nodded.
Esme stood. "I'll let you rest. I just wanted to offer my support."
As she stepped outside into the afternoon sun, she paused at the end of the walkway, adjusting the bouquet ribbon in her bag out of habit. The breeze carried the scent of lavender from the widow's garden—and something else. Cigar smoke.
She turned—and there he was.
Liam stood leaning against his black sedan, a cigarette in hand. He looked out of place in the sleepy suburban street, like a storm waiting to happen.
Esme's heart stalled for half a beat.
She recognized him from her shop—the detective who had bought lillies two days ago. Back then, he had seemed like any other customer buying flowers for a funeral, with tired eyes and a quiet voice. Up close now, she saw more. Tall, lean build, slightly tousled black hair, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His button-down shirt was rolled at the sleeves, revealing sinewed forearms that looked like they belonged more to a fighter than a detective who just investigated cases.
"Funny seeing you here," he said, his voice a lazy drawl as he flicked his cigarette away.
"Funny," she echoed, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her smile returned effortlessly. "You're the one with the last-minute lilly order. You wanted them to 'my condolences, but this is just for formalities,' right?"
He chuckled. "They did the trick, thanks. I think the message was clear enough. Maybe."
Esme studied him. "You're…?"
"Liam," he offered, extending a hand.
"Esme." She took it—firm, warm grip. "I own the flower shop down on Rosemont Avenue."
"That so?" His eyes crinkled. "Florist with a name like poison. I like it."
Esme laughed, too brightly. "You don't seem like someone who knows anything about botanical etymology."
"I don't," he admitted. "But I asked around before i found your shop."
Her smile didn't falter, but her pulse jumped. "Oh?"
"Just the usual," he said, glancing back at the house. "Nice shop, good prices, charming owner. And the best funeral arrangements in town."
"Touching," she murmured. "You planning on dying soon?"
"Hopefully not. But I like to be prepared."
There was a beat of silence. Wind stirred the leaves above them.
"Got any juicy info from your other clients?" he asked suddenly, half-joking, half-probing. "Secret affairs, shady pasts?"
Esme tilted her head and smirked. "Oh, yeah. Very juicy." She said. Her words curled like smoke, honeyed with mischief—the unmistakable prelude to gossip. "I heard that there was this one dude who cheated on his wife. With. Her. Cousin"
Liam laughed. "I'll have to start shopping at your place more often. Might be more entertaining than watching TV."
She narrowed her eyes at him, the way a cat does when it hasn't decided whether to play or pounce. "Careful. Flowers tell stories, but only to those who know how to listen."
His gaze lingered on her face—tan skin with a golden undertone that caught the light like sun-warmed bronze, soft features framed by loosely pinned curls that tumbled like dark honey around her temples. Her hazel eyes were striking: warm at first glance, but calculating beneath, like a storm waiting behind amber glass. There was something about her that didn't quite fit. Too precise. Too composed.
But before he could chase the thought, she broke the moment.
"Well, detective—I'll be on my way."
With that, she gave him a short wave and turned toward the street, her heels crunching softly on gravel. As she walked away, Liam watched her go with a faint frown, a question forming in the back of his mind.
Esme, meanwhile, kept her smile steady until she reached the corner. Only then did it slip.
She wasn't done with the family. Not yet.
And Liam? He was going to be a problem.
A beautiful, dangerous problem.