The bouquet also served another purpose.
If police found Daniel’s collection of articles, his false travel plans, and his sudden disappearance, they might believe he had recreated the killer’s ritual before running away.
Amos had tried to transform the man investigating him into the main suspect.
For several weeks, Daniel and I slept poorly. Every sound outside made me look toward the window. Every unexpected phone call tightened my chest.
Gradually, normal life returned.
Daniel began attending counselling, not because he had committed the crimes, but because surviving them had changed him. He carried guilt for endangering me and for believing he could control everything alone.
I had my own anger to work through.
Love did not erase fear.
Relief did not instantly rebuild trust.
One evening, several weeks after Daniel came home, we sat together on the porch beneath a fading sky.
The house was quiet.
No police officers.
No ringing phones.
No flowers waiting near the door.
I finally said what had been circling in my mind.
“The bouquet was never meant for me.”
Daniel laced his fingers through mine.
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