Years earlier, my father, a homicide detective, had mentioned an unsolved case involving flowers. He never shared every detail, but I remembered him sitting on our porch late one night, staring into the darkness.
“Some monsters don’t leave fingerprints,” he had said. “They leave symbols.”
I grabbed my phone.
This time, I called the police.
The dispatcher asked whether I was in immediate danger.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But the bouquet has one hundred yellow roses and three of them are marked.”
Two officers arrived within an hour. They examined the flowers politely, clearly wondering whether I was frightened by an innocent mistake.
Then a dark sedan pulled into the driveway.
A silver-haired detective named Kellan entered the house. When I mentioned my father’s name, his expression changed.
“I worked with him,” he said.
Kellan approached the bouquet.
The instant he saw the three red marks, the colour disappeared from his face.
“Secure the house,” he ordered.
One officer looked confused.
“Sir?”
“Do it now.”
I gripped the back of a chair.
“You recognise them.”
Kellan looked directly at me.
“Twenty-two years ago, three women vanished. Before each disappearance, the victim received exactly one hundred yellow roses.”
“And the red marks?”
“Three marked flowers every time.”
My stomach turned.
Kellan explained that my father believed the number represented completion—a final cycle, a final goodbye.
The flowers were not a gift.
They were a warning.
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