Daniel’s handwriting.
My chest tightened as I remembered the man I had loved for eighteen years—the man who cooked terrible pancakes every Sunday, who remembered my favourite coffee creamer, and who held me through my father’s funeral.
Had he been studying the murders?
Or had he been involved in them?
By midnight, Daniel was considered a prime suspect.
I did not sleep.
The following morning, Detective Kellan returned with forensic results from the florist order.
“The fingerprints are not Daniel’s,” he said.
Relief and confusion collided inside me.
“Then whose are they?”
Kellan hesitated.
“They belong to Amos.”
I did not recognise the name.
“He was a detective,” Kellan continued. “He worked the original case with your father.”
My father’s former partner.
Kellan sat across from me and lowered his voice.
“Your father suspected Amos before he died, but he never found enough evidence to arrest him.”
“Why would Amos send flowers to me?”
“We don’t believe they were intended as a threat against you.”
“Then what were they?”
“Bait.”
Kellan explained that Daniel had somehow obtained my father’s old investigation notes. He must have been secretly examining the case and getting close to proving Amos was responsible.
The false business trip had likely been Daniel’s attempt to investigate without placing me in danger.
Amos had discovered what he was doing.
The bouquet was designed to frighten me, confuse the police, and make Daniel appear connected to the original crimes.
The newspaper clippings had not been trophies.
They were evidence Daniel had been studying.
I covered my face.
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