Page 73 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

I narrowed my eyes at them, unease crawling just beneath the surface. Something about this felt off. Completely wrong, in fact.

Why wasn’t I being interrogated? Where were the threats, the demands, the pressure? I hadn’t been questioned or restrained. No one had tied me to a chair or screamed in my face. Weren't they meant to be doing things like that? And that was the part that made my skin itch.

There were no grand speeches, no dramatic reveals, and no one pacing the room while casually polishing a knife and laying out their evil plan, as if it were a Bond movie. There was just silence. Stillness. Waiting.

And that—more than anything—was what had me on edge. Because whatever they were stalling for, I had a feeling I wouldn’t like it when it finally arrived.

Maybe that’s how it works when you’re not just kidnapped but inconvenient. Maybe when someone like Maddox decides you’re a problem, the solution isn’t dramatic—it’s clinical. Cold, like deleting a file.

I paced back to the center of the room, chewing the inside of my cheek.

And then the door creaked open.

I spun, half-expecting another meathead with a smug grin and a threat. What I got instead made my brain stutter.

An older woman stood there. White hair pulled into a neat bun, cardigan buttoned all the way up. Her long skirt swished around her ankles as she hobbled into the room with a tray balanced carefully in her hands. If I hadn’t been staring directly at her, I would’ve thought someone was messing with me. She looked like she should’ve been feeding birds on a park bench or knitting a scarf for someone who never wore scarves. Then again, who wore scarves in Orlando?

“Time for something to eat,” she said gently as if she were delivering tea and cookies to a guest in her sitting room, not feeding a hostage.

I stepped back, my eyes locked on the tray.

Ham sandwich. Bottle of water. A small bag of chips.

It was the kind of meal someone gives a grandkid after a long day at school, not someone they’re planning to erase.

She set it on the floor near the chair and looked up at me with a tired smile. “You should stay hydrated.”

I really didn't know what to say, so I just stared at her blankly.

She had crow’s feet that deepened when she smiled and soft, worn hands that looked more familiar with baking cookies than handling anything dangerous. Her shoes had thick orthopedic soles—the kind designed for comfort over style, the type worn by someone who spent more time on their feet than on the run.

Nothing about her fit the situation.

She didn’t look like a threat. She didn’t even look like she belonged in the same universe as the people who’d dragged me here. And yet, here she was, calm and composed in the middle of all this madness.

None of it made sense. Not her. Not this place. Not any of it.

“Why are you being nice to me?” I finally asked, my voice low and wary.

She studied me for a moment. “You remind me of my daughter when she was your age.”

I frowned. “Your daughter?”

“She was only fifteen when it happened. We were at the beach, just a normal day, and the current was stronger than any of us realized. There was no lifeguard, no one watching closely enough. One moment, she was there, laughing, and the next… she was gone. We didn’t even have time to understand what was happening before it was too late.” The woman looked down at her hands, then slowly back up at me. “You look just like her.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t even know if it was true. All I knew was that her face, kind as it was, didn’t put me at ease. It unnerved me.

I hesitated, then motioned to the chair. “You want to sit?”

She chuckled, light and warm. “I’ve got old bones, but I’m not falling apart just yet.” She straightened up with more strength than I expected and smiled again. “I’m Colin’s mother.”

Every hair on my body stood up. “You’re...his mother?”

“I’m not the danger in this,” she tried to assure me quickly. “I love my son, but I’m not blind to what he does." Her eyes slid tothe side, and her mouth tightened. "At least, not anymore. But my mind—” she tapped her temple lightly, “it keeps telling me you’re her. My daughter Lara. I know you’re not, but still…”

My chest tightened. I wasn’t sure if I felt sorry for her or terrified. To be honest, it was probably both. The tragedy in her voice sounded genuine, but grief didn’t equate to harmless.

I looked down at the plate of food, a flicker of unease crawling up my spine. It could be poisoned. It could be drugged. Maybe this was how it ended—not with a gun to my head or a dramatic standoff, but with a quiet, creeping death because I let an old woman with soft eyes and a sad story convince me to trust her.

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