Liam wasn't sleeping.
Not really.
He hadn't even come close to that in days.
He'd close his eyes and drift into something like rest—only to wake tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, his pulse ragged, heart racing as if he'd run a mile through fog and fire.
He woke one morning to find a flower pressed between the pages of the file beside his bed.
Not one he put there.
Not a loose scrap from a case folder.
A violet. Whole. Untouched. Faintly wilted.
He stared at it for a long time, unmoving.
Then carefully closed the file.
He didn't always remember his dreams. But the ones he did were... strange.
Not the usual nightmares.
They were full of flowers.
——————————————————
It started with a single petal.
Floating.
Then dozens—soft, bleeding petals falling from nowhere, each one landing on a concrete floor. He would bend to touch them and they'd dissolve like ash, leaving a stain on his fingertips.
Then the smell would come. Not rot. Not perfume.
Memory.
He didn't have a word for it. But it was hers.
——————————————————
He started keeping watch outside Everflora.
At first, it was professional. Routine. A simple drive-by in an unmarked car. Then longer stays. He'd park across the street, sip bitter coffee, and tell himself it was surveillance.
That it wasn't about seeing her.
It was.
Esme never noticed him.
Or pretended not to.
Sometimes, she'd step out to sweep the stoop. Her hair would be tied up. A smudge of dirt on her cheek. A flower tucked behind her ear that didn't match the season.
Once, she crouched by a planter box and whispered something to the soil.
He didn't hear the words.
But they sat in his head for hours like they were meant for him.
——————————————————
On the third day, Poppy found him.
She didn't knock on his window. Just opened the passenger door and slid in like it was her car too.
"You look like hell," she said mildly.
Liam didn't look at her. "I could say the same."
"I'm not the one living on caffeine and paranoia."
"Didn't know you were keeping tabs on me."
Poppy leaned back in the seat. "Didn't have to. You're circling her like a moth. Only difference is, moths don't bring notebooks."
Liam exhaled. "You think she's guilty."
"I think she's not innocent," Poppy replied. "And neither are you."
He finally turned.
There was a long pause.
Then she asked, more softly, "Do you want her to be guilty?"
Liam blinked.
That was the question, wasn't it?
Did he want Esme to be the killer? The shadow? The whispered name?
Or did he want her to be his exception?
"I want the truth," he said, but even he didn't believe it.
Poppy nodded, not convinced.
"Dreaming of her yet?"
Liam froze.
Poppy smiled sadly. "Thought so."
Then she slipped out of the car and vanished down the sidewalk like she'd never been there.
——————————————————
That night, Liam dreamed again.
This time it was a garden.
Not Esme's.
Not the greenhouse.
Something older. Wilder.
There were vines on his hands, climbing like veins. Roses blooming from his wrists, thorns slicing skin. He wasn't bleeding, but he felt the ache. The pressure.
In the center of the garden stood Esme.
Dressed in black.
Barefoot.
Holding a bouquet that was burning, but not consumed.
And behind her—
Helena Levine.
Liam woke with a gasp.
The pillow damp.
His hands shaking.
——————————————————
The next day, he returned to the precinct.
The place felt smaller than it used to. Noisy. Dim.
He went straight to the archives. Pulled everything he could on Helena's original case. The autopsy. The interviews. The posthumous claims of "Thorn." And then—
The lab files.
Most had been redacted.
But he found a folder marked "Botanical Cross-Study: Code T".
Inside: a chart. Handwritten notes. Cross-species toxicity thresholds. Experiments with memory-inhibiting alkaloids. The kind of stuff that had no place in a civilian lab.
Tucked into the back was a line scribbled in someone else's hand.
Not Helena's.
"This isn't just science. It's inheritance."
Liam stared at the page.
Then at the signature beside it.
A name.
Roan.
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He took the file home.
Didn't open it again.
Just left it on the table beside his bed and tried to sleep.
This time, he didn't dream.
He hallucinated.
He was lying in Esme's greenhouse. The real one. Ceiling streaked with rain.
She was beside him.
Reading.
Her hand brushed his.
It should've felt warm.
But it felt like dirt.
He looked down—
And his chest was blooming.
Roses. Violets. Petals tearing through skin like bone. No blood. Just stems and silence.
She turned the page.
Didn't look at him.
Didn't flinch.
When he tried to speak, petals filled his throat.
——————————————————
He jolted awake with a cry.
Shaking.
Barely breathing.
The dream didn't fade this time.
It sat on him.
Like truth.
——————————————————
Later — Back in the car. Watching again.
He didn't remember getting dressed. Didn't remember driving.
Just opened his eyes and he was back across the street from her shop, hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.
Across the road, Esme opened the front door.
Held it for a woman with a child.
She smiled.
Bright. Gentle. Ordinary.
Liam watched.
And it broke him.
Because she looked more human in that moment than anyone he'd met in months.
Which meant one of two things:
Either she was innocent—
Or she was better at pretending than anyone else alive.
——————————————————
That evening, he called her.
He didn't know why.
He had no reason.
No excuse.
She answered on the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Esme."
"Detective," she said, voice unreadable.
A pause.
"How did you get my number?"
He let out a soft laugh. "I'm a detective. It wasn't that hard."
"Have I done something wrong?"
He swallowed. "No."
Another pause. "Then why are you calling me?"
Liam closed his eyes.
"I keep dreaming of flowers."
The line went still.
Then—
"Be careful," Esme said softly. "Some of them bloom just to be seen dying."
And then she hung up.