fifty-two

The coffeemaker’s burble soothed Nathan, as it did all day, every day. He cracked open a window and stuck his head out. The breeze tingled against his skin and lessened the pressure inside his head. Since Annie’s death, the intermittent buzz he struggled to ignore had turned into a constant background noise, more of a static and crackle. The desperate pitch of it accompanied him everywhere, and exhaustion added its gritty whine to the mix.

His mind was a traitor. He knew this as surely as he heard the soft can yoouu coo call from a dove perched on his firing shed.

Can yoouu kill, can yoouu kill

Chilled, he eased the window shut with a soft click. He poured himself a cup of coffee and entered his studio. The static and crackle gained volume as his thoughts wandered to the work tasks for the day. He had thirty pots to trim.

Setting aside his coffee cup, he pulled the bottom drawer all the way out of his toolbox and dug beneath needle-nose pliers, wire strippers, and random nails. He pulled out a rolled length of fishing line left over from his angling days in England. He’d kept it all these years. It was supposed to be more proof, along with his scar.

The static and crackle eased off. He closed his eyes, savoring the internal quietude. He wasn’t sure why holding the fishing wire calmed him, only that it did.

Can yoouu kill, can yoouu kill

He didn’t remember the time after Susannah’s death well. Fleeting images and dark feelings and fear, the blurred terrain of his nightmares. Commonly known as a mental breakdown. Clinically known as a psychotic break.

No way in bloody hell he’d let that happen again. He’d as soon obliterate someone else as let himself go that route. He squeezed the fishing line as his thoughts wandered down what could only be a doomed path. To find the man who had killed Annie, who had played a game with text messages and a sickening bouquet. Maybe Nathan could save himself this time.

He tucked the fishing line into his jeans pocket and pulled out his mobile to peer at an image that he’d snapped before the guards arrived at Annie’s house. He was pretty good with flowers. He recognized the yellow carnations and the less obvious purple monkshood. The bouquet maker had gone to some trouble to find the monkshood. That struck Nathan as significant.

An Internet search provided the information Nathan sought. The Victorians had sent yellow carnations to indicate disappointment—as in, you have disappointed me—and rejection. Monkshood said beware, danger is near. And, as he’d overheard the pathologist say, the withered flowers symbolized unrequited love.

Nathan tapped the mobile screen. If he was correct, the person—probably a man—who took Annie’s mobile also had Annie’s journal. This person now knew the names of all the players in Annie’s life. If she’d disappointed this person in love, it stood to reason that he might come after the rival for Annie’s affections. The monkshood said danger was near, which could mean that Annie’s killer still lurked in the vicinity.

Can yoouu kill, can yoouu kill

Sighing with what even he recognized as sick gratification, Nathan bent over the mobile again. The purple ribbon could mean royalty, wisdom, and spirituality but also mourning, cruelty, and arrogance. Two sides of the same coin in which Annie represented the side of wisdom and the bouquet maker the side of cruelty.

Nathan knew this was the truth just like he knew that his dreams represented reality.