The rain had stopped hours ago, but the pavement still glistened like black glass under the early morning light. Detective Liam Miller stood beneath the limp overhang of a crime scene tarp, steam curling from the coffee in his hands and the breath from his lips.
Another body.
Another bloom.
This time it was Damien Vale.
Astounding tech magnate. Once the golden boy of cutting-edge technology, Vale had "taken a break" from the company under a haze of internal investigations and civil lawsuits—none of which ever reached a courtroom. Allegations of bribery. Whispers of fraudulent activities and offshore accounts. A woman who came up and decided to tell the police everything she knew, but was found dead roughly a few hours after. A man who denied everything he'd said in his statement and was later rumoured to have signed an NDA.
All swept neatly under the rug.
Now, Vale sat slumped in the leather chair of his home office, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar. A vintage whiskey glass sat untouched on the desk in front of him. No fingerprints. No defensive wounds. No sign of forced entry.
Only a single flower lay beside him.
A gloriosa lily, flame-red and yellow, curled like fire.
Liam crouched next to the body, careful not to disturb the scene. He glanced at the bloom.
Colchicine. He'd read about it after the last case. Toxic in small doses. Painful, untraceable in inexperienced hands—but in the right ones? Clean. Swift. Almost merciful.
Williams stepped in behind him, her ponytail soaked through the back of her coat. "Same M.O.," she said quietly, handing him the latest field report. "Toxicology suggests colchicine. Estimated time of death: sometime between midnight and three. No signs of trauma."
"And no cameras again?" Liam asked.
She shook her head. "Disabled. Professionally. This was surgical, Liam. Just like the last three."
Liam straightened, the flower chart from his desk flashing in his mind. Hyacinth with the first victim. Peony with the second. A white rose that was dyed blue with the third. Now Gloriosa. The pattern wasn't just botanical. It was ritualistic. And this time, she wanted them to know exactly how she did it.
He looked toward the window. The sunlight was creeping through the blinds, illuminating Vale's face with a strange softness. Almost as if he were merely sleeping.
"He wasn't just killed," Liam murmured. "He was chosen."
Williams raised a brow. "I thought we just called her Thorn because of the flowers she always left behind. I didn't think she actually used their toxins."
"Yeah, well it all makes sense now." He turned toward her, jaw tight. "Remember that flower from the last scene? I took it to Poppy. She identified some signs that suggested exposure to aconitine. Thorn doesn't only knows poisons, she knows plants. She's methodical, careful—and she's sending a message."
Williams pulled up the victims' files on her tablet. "Damien Vale. Before him, Randall J. Keene—white-collar fraud, buried three lawsuits with money and connections. The one before that, Nessa Adams—former CEO of Altheon Pharmaceuticals. Allegations of falsified drug trial data. A man who died during one of her fast-tracked releases. And the first one—Simone Delacroix, fashion mogul with an HR file longer than a police report. Allegations of abuse, sexual harassment, exploitation... All of them shielded. All walked free."
Liam's stomach turned.
Now all of them were dead.
———––———————————————
Later that Day – Everflora flower shop.
The scent of lilies hung thick in the air, mingling with earth and rain.
Esme snipped a curling stem of gloriosa, her fingers deft and deliberate. The petals splayed open like tongues of flame—vivid, dangerous, and beautiful. She moved slowly today. Deliberately. Not from guilt. Never guilt.
But because she knew the weight of each act. And because the man who now haunted her thoughts was getting closer.
Her gaze flicked up to the small TV mounted in the corner of the shop. The sound was muted, but the headline crawling across the bottom of the screen was clear enough:
"Fourth Unsolved High-Profile Death This Year. 'Thorn returns'?"
Her lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile.
A young couple walked in, asking about centerpieces for a wedding. Esme tucked away the gloriosa, cleaned her blade, and switched to her softer voice—the one laced with charm and sweetness. Her other weapon.
The couple never noticed the shift in her eyes. They never would.
After they left, Esme walked to the back room and opened her notebook. On the page: dried petals, names, dates. Damien Vale now joined the list, his name crossed out in elegant, looping script.
Justice delivered.
But her fingers hovered before she closed the book. Her thoughts drifting to the list sitting hauntingly in her dresser. She didn't know how much time she had left before the threats started rolling in. She'd have to act fast. Which meant putting a pause on her agenda and focusing on the five new names. Well, four new names, one name that wasn't supposed to be there.
Then her thoughts drifted again. To someone else. Her brain betraying her.
They turned, unbidden, to him.
Detective Liam. The quiet resolve in his eyes. The way his voice sounded like the still moment before a storm.
She hadn't meant to notice him. Hadn't meant to see the burden in his posture, the honesty in his questions.
He wasn't like the others.
And that frightened her more than anything.
Because he was good at his job. She could feel it.
And if he found her...
What then?
———————————————————
Evening – Liam's Apartment
Liam's living room was a mess of files, photos, and scrawled notes. A wall of profiles, all pointing to the same impossible theory.
He leaned back in his chair, exhausted.
On the table before him lay four blooms, pressed and preserved in evidence bags: hyacinth, peony, blue rose, gloriosa.
The message was getting clearer.
"These aren't random killings," he whispered to himself. "They're executions. Carefully chosen. All the victims were perpetrators protected by corrupt officials—shielded, powerful. Someone's doing what the courts couldn't."
He should've been disgusted.
But instead, part of him understood. Part of him agreed.
Still, he was a detective. Bound by oath. By law. And he was still after vengeance. For what she did to his mentor.
He couldn't chase ghosts, and yet he couldn't stop seeing her—a shadow in the periphery of every case. A woman in the smoke. A whisper in the garden.
Someone was out there.
Precise. Ruthless. Beautiful in her rage.
And he was getting closer.