Page 57 of Secrets

“Why do you assume that?” Fikes asks, his hands dipping into the pockets of his jeans.

“They were probably initiates. The cartel here likes weird shit like that, with them having that hairstyle. They were probably sent by someone higher up in case they were caught. An easy and meaningless loss if they had to kill them.”

Fikes nods. “I see. So why do you think they were there?”

My uncle sighs. “Considering the container was empty, I have no idea, but…” He trails off for a moment and then just as quickly, I see his signature epiphany light his face up like an iridescent bulb.

“Hey, Fikes. Would you mind getting me some water?” I ask before my uncle can, knowing he’ll be a lot more obvious.

“Yeah, of course.” He doesn’t hesitate to move, jumping into action and out the door.

When he’s gone, I turn to my uncle. “Did you figure it out?”

He shakes his head. “No, but I think you will when I tell you what I’m thinking.”

My eyes widen more and more as I listen to him piece together some things he’s noticed at the office, with the cartel, local PD, and the commissioner. By the time he’s done, I feel as if I’ve been handed the world’s biggestWhere’s Waldo, where they all have on the same damn outfit.

I go over the details in my head, trying to connect the dots that are mere inches away from making sense. And it isn’t until Fikes comes back with my water and I connect one. One I should have over a month ago.

“Thank you, Elena. These are beautiful.”

“Of course, Miss Morton. Please give your sister my congratulations.” I hand my long-time customer a bouquet of peonies, her face alight with joy when accepting them. She cradles them on her way out, exactly how I imagine she’ll hold her newborn niece, and doesn’t look up again until Ben opens the door for her to exit.

At one point in time, her happiness would have been a conundrum to me.

Contrary to what people might assume, plants have never brought me joy. Not once have I seen a bright sunflower and smiled. Smelled fresh cut roses and marveled at the divine scent. Or gazed about a bundle of daisies and dreamt of blue skies.

No. For me, plants have simply been a form of service that brings me refined contentment. A connection to both my mother, long dead and gone, and the one at my feet. Nature grounds me. At least, that used to be true.

Over the past few weeks, that’s changed. In fact, a lot has changed. So much so, I barely even recognize my routine compared to this time last year.

Before, my first thought in the morning was whether I should start my day with a warm cup of coffee or opt for herbal tea. Now, I check a device to see if Jessica sent me a silly picture in the middle of the night. Before, I’d look over my week’s schedule to see how many deliveries or orders I had and which boys to send where. Now, I see when I’ll have pockets of time in which I can spend them with her.

And until about two months ago, I wouldn’t have gone long without finding someone to kill. Someone whose death would mean Mother Earth would be a little less littered. Now, I haven’t had the desire to spend those extra moments looking for them, when I could spend them elsewhere. With someone far more important.

So many things have changed, including how I look at flowers.

Now, the colors and their vibrance remind me of the agent, and bring a warmth to my chest I never before experienced. That’s why when I glance through the window at Miss Morton getting into her car, I smile at the bouquet in her grip.

Perhapsthingshaven’t changed.

I have.

Ben, Mrs. Ward’s son and delivery boy by day, my personal clean-up crew by night, huffs, his eyes flickering from mine to the floor he’s sweeping.

I lift a brow. “What is it?”

He shakes his head, his mop of dark curls swaying over his forehead as he opts to remain silent. Ben is and always will be a reserved observationalist. He watches everything and takes notes. It’s because of this that we haven’t been caught disposing of bodies at the river.

“Go on, speak your piece.” I walk from around my counter, hands on my hips as I narrow him with a gaze his mother has given us more than a few times in our lives.

The corner of Ben’s lips tilt, but when I think he’s not going to say anything, he simply shrugs. “You deserve to smile.”

His genuine kindness causes me to melt a little bit, and while my natural reaction would be to reject the idea that I deserve anything good in this world, I don’t.

Perhaps it’s a little self-righteous that I, a woman who has taken more lives than I care to admit, can stand here and welcome the thought that I haveearnedthe right to be happy. The right to receive good fortune. And yet, I have. Iam.

I part my lips to thank him, but am interrupted by the loud roar of an engine. The familiar sound makes my heart flutter, and my feet immediately begin propelling me to the door, anticipation making my steps quick.

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