The greenhouse behind Poppy's bookstore was warm and damp, dense with the scent of soil, citrus, and something sharper. The overhead lights hummed softly, casting long shadows across the rows of potted herbs and blooming orchids.
Liam stepped through the side door, already unzipping his coat. He knew better than to knock—Poppy hated that.
"Didn't expect you back so soon," she called out without looking up.
She stood at her workbench, fingers deep in a tray of dirt, repotting a devil's ivy. A smear of soil crossed her cheek like war paint, and her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing inked vines curling around her forearms.
"I've got questions," Liam said, pulling a small notepad from his coat pocket.
"You always do." She flicked her gaze up to him, sharp as a scalpel. "But you never bring coffee when you do."
"I brought questions about poisons," he said dryly, "and a bruised apple."
"That's cute. Sit."
He did, sliding onto the old stool near her bench. It creaked under his weight, familiar and rickety like everything else in this place.
Poppy pulled off her gloves and wiped her hands on a rag. "You're not gonna like my answers."
"Didn't come here for comfort," Liam said. He flipped to a dog-eared page in his notebook. "Let's talk about poison extraction. Say someone has access to aconitum, belladonna, digitalis—hell, let's throw in colchicine for fun. What does it take to actually process those into something lethal?"
Poppy's eyebrows arched, amused and annoyed. "Jesus, Liam. Planning a murder-suicide?"
"Just answer the question."
She leaned back on her heels, eyeing him. "Depends on the plant. And the method. You talking raw ingestion? Infusions? Tinctures? Injectables? Smoke? Each one hits different."
He wrote as she spoke. "Say someone wanted something clean. No smell, no taste. Quick onset, maybe within minutes."
"That's aconitine," she said. "Pulled from monkshood. Fast absorption. Heart stops like a drumline cut mid-beat."
"Can it be disguised?"
"Easily," she said. "Mixed with alcohol, tea, even perfume if you're twisted enough. But it takes care. You mess up the dose, you leave a trail."
Liam's pen stopped moving. "So this isn't amateur work."
Poppy gave him a flat look. "You already knew that."
He did. But hearing it out loud felt heavier.
He tapped his pen once, twice, against the page. Then: "Could someone extract it in a standard kitchen setup? Or would they need lab-grade equipment?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Depends on their tolerance for risk. With the right books and enough time? Sure. But getting it pure? Stable? You'd need experience. Or obsession."
She leaned in. "What kind of killer are you chasing, Liam?"
He looked up, met her eyes.
She didn't blink.
"Someone who knows plants better than most botanists," he said finally. "Someone who doesn't just use flowers as a signature. They're using the plants themselves. The toxins. The biology. It's not about making a statement. It's about precision."
Poppy let that sit in the air between them, thick as compost.
"You think it's a woman?" she asked softly.
He did, but he didn't answer. Not directly.
"I think the killer sees what the law doesn't," he said. "They're not just picking random targets. These are powerful people. Protected. Dirty."
Poppy crossed her arms, studying him. "You starting to sound like you agree with her."
"I didn't say it's a her."
"You didn't have to."
Silence. The kind that wasn't quite comfortable.
She pushed off the bench and walked to a cabinet near the far wall. Unlocked it with a key around her neck. Inside: books. Thick, old, bound in cracked leather and cloth.
"Helena used to talk like that," Poppy said, thumbing through the shelf. "You remember her?"
Liam nodded. "Esme's mother."
"She wasn't just a botanist. She was...something else. Something sharp." She pulled out a book and tossed it onto the bench in front of him. "Flora Mortal: Applied Toxicology in Bloom. Helena annotated this one. Every margin. Every petal."
Liam opened it, careful not to tear the yellowing pages. Notes in fine, looping script danced beside diagrams of plants—some common, some rare, a few extinct in the wild.
"She taught someone," Poppy said. "Whoever's doing this? It's not just talent. It's legacy."
That word landed heavy.
Liam didn't like the thought. Legacy meant roots. Roots meant permanence.
"Have you seen anyone trying to buy rare strains?" he asked. "Something like wild monkshood? Anything hybridized?"
Poppy hesitated.
"There was a woman," she said finally. "Weeks ago. Wore gloves even inside. Bought a hybrid foxglove and left cash in an envelope. No name. No questions."
"Face?"
"Covered. Hat, scarf. Voice was soft, educated. But... her hands? They moved like a surgeon's. Or a dancer's. Everything she did was precise."
Liam's heart kicked once, hard.
"Anything else?" he asked, voice lower now.
Poppy leaned close. "Yeah. She didn't ask about the plants. She already knew what they were. She just picked them up like she was reuniting with old friends."
He swallowed.
"She came through the alley," Poppy added. "Not the storefront. Like she was... testing whether I was the kind of person who'd ask questions."
"Did you?"
Poppy's mouth twisted. "No. But I should have."
Liam closed the book. "If she comes back, tell me."
"Sure," Poppy said. "But Liam?"
"Yeah?"
"If she's who you think she is... and you get too close?" She reached for a blooming angel's trumpet beside the table. "Even the prettiest flowers kill slow. Real slow."
He didn't answer.
Just stood, tucked the notebook into his coat, and nodded once.
But as he reached the door, Poppy called out behind him.
"Oh, one last thing."
He turned.
"That hybrid foxglove she bought?" Poppy's expression shifted. "You asked about toxins, dosage, all that. But this was different."
"How?"
"She didn't take it to kill someone," Poppy said. "She took it to test how much it wouldn't kill."
Liam paused, the doorknob cold under his palm.
And for the first time, the idea slithered into his mind—
Who was she trying to save?