Page 4 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

My gut twisted at this information as I glanced down at my phone, the text with the address just popping up. I thumbed it open and tapped to send it to my truck’s GPS.

“You think she skipped town?”

“If what you’re saying is true, she might have already been on the run—scrambling to cover her tracks by getting rid of anything that could connect her to this place and hoping no one figures it out before she's long gone.”

The GPS began chirping directions, rerouting me off the hell-zone of the main strip. I gritted my teeth, weaving around a double-parked SUV whose driver looked like they were arguing with Google Maps. I wasn't going to judge them on how crazy they looked, we'd all been there.

“Any signs of forced entry?”

“Negative. My contact says the place looked secure—perhaps too secure, actually. The house has a reinforced door, and there aren't any broken windows. Honestly, with all the security, it seems like someone who expected trouble lived there.”

“Shit,” I sighed. It sounded exactly like someone knew what was coming and made it even more likely she was in trouble.

I could still hear the traffic buzzing around me—horns honking, brakes screeching, and the distant shouts of a tourist who likely missed the turn for Disney and took out their frustration on a roundabout. But my mind wasn't in the cab of that truck anymore, it was on Gabby and whatever trouble she had gotten herself into.

And how damn fast I needed to find her before someone else did.

The GPS led me off West Colonial Drive and down a narrow street that looked as if it hadn’t undergone a zoning update since the 1960s. Single-story homes lined both sides—concrete blocks, flat roofs, faded pastel paint jobs, some with sun-bleached flamingos in the yard. It was the kind of neighborhood that didn’t bother pretending it was anything other than tired and stubbornly still standing.

I rolled to a stop in front of Gabby’s house. It looked normal. It wastoonormal, especially when you knew about the steel door and everything else Matty's guy had noticed.

The small house had white siding, a short walkway cracked with weeds, and a mailbox leaning sideways like it had given up on life. There was no car in the driveway, and no movement was visible behind the windows.

But that wasn’t what made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

The house felt held like it was bracing for something. I’d seen plenty of abandoned places in my life—some empty, some hiding secrets—and this one didn’t feel empty per se. It felt sealed off.

I killed the engine and stepped out into the thick air. The sun was dipping behind the trees, casting long shadows across the yard, and the cicadas were starting up, loud and nervous.

I walked slowly but didn’t approach the door right away, I just did a lap around the property, taking it all in. That’s what Dad taught me: always look before you knock. I searched the ground near the windows, the bushes, and the mailbox for signs indicating that someone had been there recently.

The porch was spotless, but it was too clean. The doormat was crooked as if it had been moved and then dropped again in a hurry. The door didn’t have your average deadbolt — this one had a steel plate retrofit tucked low behind a decorative kick panel.

I wasn't sure if this meant the resident was paranoid or prepared. With Gabby, apparently, there was no difference.

I circled around to the back of the house, watching my footing as I went—every step deliberate, just in case something had been left behind. The yard was fully fenced, but the gate wasn’t locked, which struck me as careless or calculated—I couldn’t tell which. I climbed up onto the back porch and took a moment to scan the space. Just like the front, the back door stood solid and secure—reinforced, triple-locked, and pristine. Not a single scratch, dent, or sign of forced entry. It was almost too perfect like someone had gone out of their way to make sure it stayed untouched.

That part made me feel better, the other part not so much because I felt watched.

If you worked in this field long enough, you learned to trust your instincts. I casually looked up and across the street, then leaned back against the fence as if I were checking my phone. One of thecars that had passed me earlier—a dark sedan—was now parked three houses down. The windows were tinted, so I couldn't see who was inside, and the engine was still running.

Maybe it was nothing. Perhaps someone was waiting for a DoorDash delivery. Or maybe it was someone who wanted to make sure Gabby didn’t come back.

I texted Matty.

Me: I'm at the address. The house looks untouched, but I’ve got a possible tail—a dark sedan, no plates on the front. I'm not gonna approach. I'll text you when I know something.

I slid the phone into my back pocket, made my way back to the front door, and went up the steps. There was definitely no sign of forced entry.

I knocked and then leaned in close to the door and said, just loud enough, “Gabby, if you’re in there, it’s Webb. I’m not here to drag you home, just checking you’re alive because Sash's worried. Open up or don’t, but I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay.”

I leaned back and waited, hearing nothing from inside. I wasn’t sure what pissed me off more—that Gabby was probably already gone or that she’d potentially gotten herself into something so deep she couldn’t even ask for help.

Or maybe… that she didn’t think I’d come. Then again, why would I be the person she contacted in this situation? Fuck that, I should be the person she thought of.

Frustrated with my own thoughts, I backed down the steps, crossed my arms, and stared at the dark sedan until the driver turned on their blinker and pulled away. Smart move.

I wasn’t going to let this go. Something was definitely wrong, and I was now determined to uncover the truth. Gabby wouldn’t just disappear for no reason, and she certainly wouldn’t have booby-trapped her life without purpose. Unless, of course, the house had already come that way, which made me question why she would want a property with such intricate security measures.

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