The name stirred something in me.
“My father knew a Kellan,” I whispered.
His eyes shifted to mine. “Your father was Detective Ron.”
I nodded, surprised by the pain that still came with hearing Dad’s name. He had been a homicide detective for most of his life. Before he died, he occasionally shared stories from old investigations, never the worst details, but enough that I knew some cases stayed with him.
Detective Kellan moved toward the roses.
At first, his expression was calm.
Then he saw the three marked flowers.
The color drained from his face.
“Where did these come from?” he asked, his voice low.
“I told them. A florist delivered them. No card. No sender. Just my name.”
He turned to the officers. “Secure the house. Call it in.”
Officer Voss straightened. “Sir?”
“Now.”
My legs weakened. “You recognize this.”
Detective Kellan looked at me, and for the first time since the bouquet arrived, someone believed me.
“Twenty-two years ago,” he began, “three women disappeared. Each one received one hundred yellow roses before she vanished.”
My throat tightened.
“One hundred,” I said.
He nodded. “Not 99. Not 101. Exactly 100. Your father believed the number meant the end. A complete cycle. A final goodbye.”
I gripped the back of a chair.
“And the red dots?”
“Three marked flowers,” he confirmed. “Every time.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I remembered sitting with Dad on our old porch years earlier. He had been staring into the dark, rolling a cold cup of coffee between his hands.
“Some monsters don’t leave fingerprints,” he had said. “They leave symbols.”
I had thought he was just tired.
I had not known he was warning me.
The police tried calling Daniel again. I called too. Each attempt went unanswered.
Then Detective Kellan contacted Daniel’s company.
I watched his face while he listened.
“What is it?” I asked when he hung up.
He did not answer right away.
“Please tell me.”
“Daniel was never on a business trip.”
My mouth went dry.
“That’s not possible.”
“The hotel reservation was fake. The flight was never taken. Nobody at his company has seen him in four days.”
Four days.
My husband had kissed my forehead on Monday morning, told me he would call from Chicago, and walked out with his suitcase.
Now I did not know where he was.
Or who he was.
The police searched the house that evening. I sat in the living room with a blanket around my shoulders, listening to drawers open and close upstairs.
Then Detective Kellan returned, holding a small metal lockbox from Daniel’s home office.
“Amber,” he said carefully, “do you know what this is?”
I shook my head.
Inside were newspaper clippings.
Dozens of them.
Some were old and yellowed. Some looked newer. All of them were about the disappearances from 22 years earlier.
My hand flew to my mouth.
“No,” I breathed.
There were photos of the victims. Articles about the roses. Notes in Daniel’s handwriting along the margins.
Officer Voss looked grim. “We need to issue a warrant.”
I stared at the clippings until the words blurred.
My Daniel.
The man who made terrible pancakes every Sunday because he insisted mine were “too pretty to eat.” The man who held me when my father died. The man who had slept beside me for 18 years.
Had he been hiding this?
Had I been loving a stranger?
By midnight, Daniel was named a prime suspect.
