I believed my husband had surprised me with one hundred yellow roses while he was out of town—until I counted every flower and immediately contacted the police.
Daniel had never been good with romantic notes. Once, he sent me a necklace without a card and later claimed the jewellery explained itself. After eighteen years of marriage, I knew his quiet way of showing affection.
I carried the roses into the dining room and placed them in the centre of the table. For a few moments, they seemed to transform the entire house.
Then uneasiness crept in.
Daniel knew I loved white roses.
I had carried white roses at our wedding. He bought them after my mother died. They decorated our table on our fifteenth anniversary.
He would never have chosen yellow.
Then I noticed the number printed on the florist’s tag.
Exactly one hundred.
Not ninety-nine.
Not one hundred and one.
Daniel was thoughtful, but he was not extravagant. There was no birthday, anniversary, or special occasion.
I called him.
The phone rang until voicemail answered.
I sent a message.
“Did you send me flowers?”
No reply.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
The bouquet no longer looked romantic. It appeared strangely deliberate, almost as though it had been placed in my home for a reason.
I walked around the table, studying the arrangement. The roses had been organised into ten precise rows of ten.
Near the centre, several flowers sat lower than the others.
I leaned closer.
One rose had a tiny red stain hidden beneath a petal.
I thought it was a natural flaw until I found another.
Then a third.
Exactly three roses had been secretly marked in red.
My hands began to shake.
I had seen that pattern before.
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