Page 2 of Enigma
Her mother’s hands stilled a moment. “Your father’s work requires us to adapt quickly to new situations, new people. The skills I’m teaching you—understanding people, making them comfortable, helping them feel special—those skills will serve you well no matter where life takes you.”
Olive supposed that made sense. They had no extended family, so it had only been the five of them for as long as Olive could remember. There were no Christmases at Grandmas or sleepovers with cousins.
For that reason, their community was constantly shifting and changing.
They worked in comfortable silence for several minutes, the afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window and warming their hands as they arranged flowers. Olive found herself getting lost in the meditative rhythm of trimming, positioning, adjusting.
“There.” Mom finally stepped back to admire their work. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
Olive looked at their arrangements—two stunning bouquets that showed no sign of the wilted, damaged flowers they’d started with. “They look completely different.”
“That’s the magic of it.” Mom started to clean up the newspaper scattered with flower debris. “With the right touch, anything can become beautiful. Anyone can become whatever they need to be.”
Something in her mother’s tone made Olive look up. Her mother was smiling, but there was something else in her expression—a shadow that seemed deeper than pride in their flower arranging.
“Mom?” Olive said hesitantly. “Are you okay?”
“Okay? What do you mean?”
“I just mean . . . you seem different when Dad’s not here.”
She blinked as if startled. “Different how?”
“More . . .” Olive searched for the right word. “More yourself, I guess.”
Her mother laughed, but it sounded different too—lighter, more genuine than her usual careful laughter. “Maybe that’s because Iammore myself. Sometimes we all have to wear different faces for different people, sweetheart. The trick is remembering which face is really yours.”
She kissed the top of Olive’s head.
Olive let her mom’s words ruminate in her mind then asked, “When’s Dad going to be home?”
A pensive expression stretched through her mom’s gaze. “I’m not sure.”
“What’s he doing this time?” He was always closing a deal or meeting a new client or attending another seminar.
Her mom glanced at her, a strangely sad look in her eyes. “I don’t know. You know your father doesn’t really like talking about his job. He keeps work things at work, and personal things personal.” She dropped her voice, imitating Olive’s father.
Olive couldn’t help but giggle.
Her mom’s smile faded as she stepped away from the counter and flower arrangements. “Why don’t you put yours in your bedroom, Olive? Every time you look at it, remember what you learned today.”
That night, as Olive lay in bed looking at her flower arrangement on the dresser, she thought about her mother’s words. In the darkness, she couldn’t see the carefully hidden imperfections, only the beautiful result. But she knew they were there, concealed beneath layers of artful positioning and strategic design.
She fell asleep wondering if people were the same way—if everyone had damage they were trying to hide, and if her mother’s skill at reading people stemmed from uncovering Olive’s father’s own carefully constructed arrangements.
CHAPTER 2
The Florida heat had enveloped Olive from the moment she stepped out of the airport. But it wasn’t the humidity that made her palms sweat as she stood on the sidewalk outside Lloyd Stewart’s house in Clearwater.
She paused and observed the area. Palm trees swayed in the early morning breeze, and the neighborhood was quiet except for the distant hum of air conditioning units working overtime against the oppressive temperature. October in Florida could still be hot, but the temperature today went above and beyond normal expectations.
Lloyd’s house was typical for the area—two stories and beige stucco, with a red tile roof that had seen better days. The Gulf Coast was only a mile away, accessible via the water behind the house, and the whole area offered quiet suburban anonymity.
It was the perfect place for a retired doctor to live.
She’d been staring at this address online for three days, pulling it up on her laptop, closing it, then opening it again.
Last night she’d booked the red-eye flight after another sleepless hour of weighing her options. She’d taken leave from her investigative work at Aegis, so she was free to use her time as she wanted.
