Page 2 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

It'd happened on a Tuesday night after I'd stopped in for a drink after one of the worst shifts I'd ever had at the call center I was working in at the time. Some woman in a coral blouse with lipstick two shades too bold sat beside me and leaned in like we were old friends.

"Can I ask you a favor?" she'd said.

Now, I wasn't a total pushover, but I was tired, broke, and curious—all of which was a dangerous combination.

"Depends," I shrugged, sipping my drink. We've all heard of women having to look for help in bars, so I couldn't say nooutright, but there'd been every possibility that it would be a weird request. It was just a matter of statistics and my luck.

She pointed to a man across the room, seated with a group of co-workers. "That's my husband. I want you to hit on him."

I blinked. "Sorry, what now?"

She grinned. "Nothing crazy, just flirt. I want to see if he takes the bait."

When I laughed—because what else do you do in that situation?—she leaned in closer and said, "I'll pay you twenty thousand dollars to find out if he's cheating on me."

Twenty.Thousand. Dollars. I mean, come on, I'm not crazy. The fact that I considered it probably said I was, but who would turn down that amount of money?

In the end, I said no to the flirting part—I've got boundaries, even if they were taped together with financial desperation—but I said yes to the investigation. The man turned out to be squeaky clean, just a workaholic architect who loved his job and adored his wife but had no idea how to show it. However, that job flipped a switch in me.

From there, the word spread quietly. A whisper network of people needing the truth: runaway teens, shady spouses, a guy who was convinced his dog-walker was stealing his Rolexes. FYI, she was, and was wearing them to walk the dogs.

I stayed unofficial. No licenses, no filing cabinets, no one to regulate me. Just burner phones, cash payments, and my naturally unassuming face. I looked harmless, soft-spoken, like someone who'd apologize for standing too close to you in line. Which was precisely why I was so good at what I did.

Until this last job—the one that was going to get me killed.

It started like the others—a woman suspected her husband of cheating. Only this husband happened to be Colin Maddox, one of the most prominent building contractors in Florida. The man was behind half the resorts, three gated communities, and a chain of golf clubs with names like "The Whispering Palms" and "Silver Dunes" in Orlando.

I followed him, took photos, and recorded conversations. He was cheating, sure, but he was also cutting corners on construction, hiding structural violations, and bribing inspectors. I knew about the violations because I spent days researching building codes.

Then came the night I got too close.

I'd followed him to a site just after midnight—one that hadn't broken ground yet. It was just a foundation, raw and waiting. He pulled up, popped the trunk, and dragged something heavy and wrapped in plastic out of it.

I didn't need to see the shape of the hand slip-free to know what it was.

And I didn't need to guess what happened next when I watched him drop the body into the concrete and have the site crew pour over it like nothing had happened.

Unfortunately, I wasn't as invisible as I'd thought.

There were cameras at a shitty angle, but enough to catch my car, and he'd traced my plates. Then came the threats—emails, anonymous calls, a note shoved under my door. Then someone broke into my car and tore it apart, looking for the files.

They didn't get far because my house was like Fort Knox, seeing as how the previous owner had been a full-blown doomsday prepper. There were steel bars in the walls, bulletproof windows, and enough security to make a Secret Service agent jealous.

They didn't make it inside, but I caught them on my cameras. Multiple men, all armed, as they attempted to carry out a coordinated hit. That's when I knew it wasn't just about intimidation anymore.

The next morning, I packed everything: my notes, my drives, and my backups. I uploaded the evidence to three encrypted servers and sent the links to my most paranoid, code-obsessed contacts. Then, I shut down everything else.

I'd even turned off my phone and bought a new one at a dingy gas station on the edge of town that I paid in cash for. Before I'd gone in, I'd put on the wig I kept for long-tail jobs—it was red, wavy, and so fucking itchy it almost drove me insane. One of the biggest changes, which might sound stupid, was swapping out my contacts for my thick-framed glasses. I never went without my contacts, no matter what. I could have the worst case of pink eye, and those disposable discs would still be in my eyes. The transformation was ridiculous but effective, though. I looked about sixteen, lost, and allergic to confrontation.

Then I drove.

Orlando to Branford feels like a long-ass haul when you're running from a murderer and trying not to breathe too loudly. I stopped only when I had to for coffee, fuel, and a lot of praying the transmission would hold out.

I didn't call anyone. I didn't even text Sasha, even though she was probably wondering where the hell I was. I hadn't exactlykept in touch while I was buried in this job, and now I was going to have to explain at some point why that radio silence came with life-threatening baggage.

I figured that once I got to the right place, I'd find a way to get a message to her and my cousins. That wasn't the priority right now, though, staying alive was.

It'd occurred to me as I was packing that I knew one person who might—big emphasis on the might—be able to help me, Sasha's brother-in-law, Webb.

---