Page 38 of Desperate Crimes
A door.
Could be a closet. Or something else. I run my fingers along the panel, noting how well it blends with the wall.
There’s no handle.
Excitement courses through my veins. I wonder, not for the first time how messed up I really am because I’m still not freaking out.
In fact, I’m more curious than anything.
And when I push?
It gives.
Click.
The door swings open on silent hinges, and I freeze in the threshold.
My breath catches.
What lies beyond is not a closet. Not even close.
It’s a—oh my God—a garden!
A secret garden.
An indoor one.
Like a miniature arboretum.
The floor is covered in mossy green rugs that mimic grass beneath my feet, and raised planters line the walls, overflowing with vines and blossoms that thrive in the carefully calculated temperature.
It’s cool, but not cold. And there’s moisture—like a humidifier or something—for the plants.
There’s a bench tucked under an ivy-covered arch and warm golden sconces casting light like fireflies.
But what steals my breath—what owns it—is the centerpiece.
A massive potted spruce tree.
Easily ten feet tall, stretching toward a skylight carved into the ceiling above.
Moonlight spills in, casting silver light across the glossy glass ornaments hanging from the branches—snowflakes, stars, icicles, tiny fantastical creatures, each one delicate and unique.
Twinkle lights circle the beast of a tree like a constellation come to life.
A thousand tiny stars wrapped around branches that shimmer with just enough needle-tipped glamor to take my breath away.
It’s magnificent.
And completely unexpected.
On another wall, I spy roses flourishing in a variety of clay pots. More Halfeti blooms, so deeply saturated they look black as ink.
Rich, velvety and impossible.
I step closer.
They’re real.
