The flower shop where Freda worked sat just a few turns around the corner from the Shellville Estate—five turns, to be precise. The familiar trail of cobbled roads and quiet houses always led me here, to this quaint little shop where the scent of fresh blossoms spilled out into the street right before the Estate.
I didn't go in right away.
Instead, I stood across the road, leaning against a lamppost, watching Freda through the large glass windows.
She looked… content. There was a gentle rhythm to the way she moved between displays, speaking softly to customers, occasionally laughing at something someone said. Her hands, always delicate and swift, worked over petals like they were sacred—arranging, wrapping, handing off with grace. I felt something twist in my chest. Guilt? Relief? Maybe both.
I kept scrolling through my phone, mostly pretending. Truth was, I was watching the clock more than the screen. When it finally hit 6:00 PM, I slid my phone into my pocket and crossed the street.
The little bell above the door chimed as I stepped inside.
She turned.
And then, like light breaking through a cloudy sky, she ran over and hugged me tight.
"Clair!" she squealed. "You came!"
Her embrace was warm and familiar, and for a second, the weight of everything I'd been carrying felt just a little lighter, lifted off my shoulder for that briefest moment.
"Hey, Fred," I murmured into her pink hair. "Been a while."
"Too long," she said, pulling back with a mock pout. "I was starting to think you forgot about me."
I raised a brow. "Please. You? Unforgettable."
She laughed and swatted my arm before guiding me around the counter. "Come on. I've got just the spot for you."
She led me to a small table nestled in the back corner of the shop. It was tucked between a stand of violets and a wall shelf full of dusty gardening books. The scent of mint and jasmine embraced the air. Freda disappeared briefly and returned with a steaming cup of tea, setting it down before me with
a practiced smile.
"Chamomile," she said. "You still like it, right?"
I nodded, wrapping my hands around the cup. "Yeah.
Thanks."
While she moved about, turning the open sign to closed and organizing receipts, she kept glancing at me.
"So…" she finally said, stretching the word. "How's work?"
I sipped the tea slowly. It was warm, soothing, but it did nothing to stop the sigh that left my chest. "Haven't gone back."
She stilled. "Still?"
I gave a slight shrug. "Still."
"Sinclair." Her tone was soft but firm. "You loved working at the paper. Writing. Investigating. You were good at it."
"I had a plan," I muttered, watching the steam curl from my cup. "Still do."
Freda came to sit across from me, tucking her apron behind her as she leaned on the table. "What kind of plan?" Before I could answer, the doorbell rang again.
A man stepped in—late forties, maybe early fifties, wearing a navy trench coat and an expression like the world owed him an apology.
"Iceberg rose," he said sharply, not even looking around. "You have it?"
Fredastood, hervoiceimmediatelykind. "I'msorry, sir. We're out of stock at the moment. But we'll be restocking in three days—"
"This is the third time I've come here," he interrupted, his voice rising. "And every damn time, it's the same answer— 'out of stock,' 'check back in a few days.' Do you even sell the damn thing or is that just bait?"
"I understand your frustration," Freda replied patiently. "The iceberg roses are popular. They usually get ordered in bulk for home delivery right after they arrive, which is why we run out so quickly."
The man scowled. "Whatever. Forget it."
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the vases on the counter.
Freda sighed, brushing her hair out of her face as she turned back to me.
But I was still stuck on what she'd just said.
Home delivery. Bulk orders.
"Wait," I said slowly, sitting up straighter. "You said the iceberg rose is always ordered in bulk? For home delivery?"
She blinked at my change in tone. "Yeah. Why?"
"Who places those orders?"
Her brow furrowed. "I… I don't know. It's anonymous. They never leave a name. Just the payment and the address."
My heart thudded once. "What address?"
She hesitated. "Clair…"
"Freda," I said, gentler now, "please. Just the address. I need to know."
She looked around the shop, as though afraid someone else might hear. Then she leaned in slightly, voice barely above a
whisper.
"Shellville Estate."
That twist in my gut returned, sharper now. Shellville. Of course, the fuck it was.
I stared at Freda, the pieces clicking together in the back of my mind like tumblers in a lock.
She noticed the change in my face. "Sinclair… what is it?" I didn't answer.
Because suddenly, I wasn't just having tea in a flower shop anymore.
I was one step closer.
I stared at her, my fingers tightening slightly around the teacup.
"Shellville Estate," I repeated, more to myself than to Freda.
"You're sure?"
She nodded slowly, eyes searching my face. "I… yeah. It's always the same address. No name. Just the location and payment upfront. The deliveries are packed in crates—iceberg roses only. Nothing else."
"When do you usually make those deliveries?" I asked, trying to keep my tone even, though my pulse had picked up. "I mean—what days? What time?"
Freda tilted her head, thoughtful. "There's no fixed date. No schedule or routine. It's not like a weekly order or anything."
I could tell she was digging into her memories now, eyebrows knit as she tried to piece it together.
"But…" Her voice drifted, eyes narrowing slightly. "Now that
I think about it… it's strange."
"What is?"
She looked at me, almost as if she were seeing it for the first time herself. "It's always raining."
I frowned. "What?"
Freda nodded, more certain now. "Every time the order comes in—it's raining. Like, really raining. Not just a drizzle. Thunderstorms, heavy winds… always at night too. I used to joke with Maya that the customer was part vampire or something." She gave a short, awkward laugh.
I didn't laugh.
Rain. Always on rainy nights. My mind started flipping through old case files, notes, anything I'd written or heard that could link to that detail.
Maybe the high and low tides had something to do with it?
Freda continued, "It used to weird me out. I mean, who wants that many white roses during a storm? Especially iceberg roses—they're delicate. But the crates were always picked up in perfect condition."
I studied her carefully. "So you assumed…?"
She shrugged, tucking a stray pink curl behind her ear. "I figured they must be another florist. One with a rich client list. Maybe an event company that didn't want to be linked to a small shop like mine. Honestly, I didn't think much of it. The payments were good."
"Do you deliver the flowers yourself?"
She shook her head quickly. "No. Never me. I'm not the one who drives them over. The courier service handles that part. They just come, pick up the crates, and leave. Sometimes they're in marked vans. Sometimes… not."
"Not?"
"Yeah," she said slowly. "I remember one night, I stayed late. The guy who came for the crates… he wasn't in uniform. No logo on the van either. Just… silence. He didn't even speak. Just handed me a paper slip and left."
A chill settled in my chest. I stared into my tea but saw nothing in the cup except blurred reflections and a thousand questions swirling in my mind.
Freda leaned forward slightly. "Sinclair… what's going on? Why do you care so much about the iceberg rose?"
I looked up at her, forcing a small smile to hide the storm building in my head.
"I think," I said carefully, "it has to do with the case I'm preparing for my first article."
Freda's brow curved. "You are back to work?"
I shifted my weight, leaning into the table. "No. I'm writing my first article."
Freda raised a brow. "Can you write your first article without having a job?"
"I got sacked from DailyNow, not the entire industry," I said, voice calm. "Still got my license. Still a reporter."
She held my gaze—steady, skeptical.
"I know what you're thinking," I added, smirking. "And no, I'm not buying my own crap either."
"You're impossible, Sinclair. I hate you." Her smile betrayed her sarcasm.
"Good," I said, standing. "You'll get to hate me longer. Looks like you're stuck with me."
I crossed the room to the counter. "Got any sunflowers?"
She rose with a theatrical sigh, tossing a half-heated glare my way. "So this is about Melody, huh? You came for flowers, not to check in on me?"
She handed over the bouquet, and I studied it for a beat before dropping three crisp bills on the counter. Then I pushed the flowers into her hands.
"No, Mel doesn't like sunflowers but you do," I said, sharp and final, already turning toward the door. "Take care of yourself, Freda."
And with that, I stepped into the street—already making plans.
Next rainy night. One anonymous delivery.
Iceberg roses. Freda's shop.
* * *