Chapter Fourteen – Flowers in the Dark
1055 Words
It was close to ten p.m. when the knock came.
Gentle, not the sharp military rap of Harris, not the impatient pounding of neighbors. A softer rhythm. Almost… polite.
Emily hesitated, her hand hovering on the doorknob. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Then she glanced through the peephole.
Michael Reeves.
But not the disheveled detective she’d seen at the pier. Tonight he wore a dark jacket, his shirt open at the collar, a shadow of beard giving him a rugged edge. And in his hand, unbelievably, a bouquet of flowers.
She opened the door, brows lifting in surprise.
He pressed the flowers toward her with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His voice was quiet, urgent. “Play along. Otherwise they’ll turn the volume higher.”
Her breath caught. She took the flowers, blinking at him. “Michael…”
“Smile,” he murmured.
So she did. A small, fragile smile, the kind she hadn’t practiced in weeks. “Well,” she said loudly enough for anyone listening, “aren’t you full of surprises. Come in.”
Reeves stepped inside, his tone casual, almost teasing. “What can I say? A woman alone shouldn’t have to spend every night staring at four walls. I thought I’d keep you company.”
She caught the cue, turned with a laugh that sounded almost real. “That’s what I told myself when I called. Better a friendly evening than silence.”
The door shut. Reeves’s eyes scanned the room. He moved slowly, like a man inspecting art, his hands clasped behind his back. His voice stayed casual, drifting into some half-remembered anecdote.
“So I’ve been reading this book…” he began, pacing. “Picked it up secondhand. Can’t put it down. The author’s got this way of cutting through the noise, you know?”
Emily stood with the flowers clutched in her hands, watching. He wasn’t really talking to her. His gaze darted to corners, the shelves, the lamp. Then he reached behind a picture frame and plucked something small, metallic. He slipped it into his palm, never pausing his story.
“…Reminds me of the old detective novels. I’d recommend it to anyone who still believes in heroes. Which, granted, is a short list.”
He walked toward the bedroom, still talking, his tone deliberately light. She followed, heart pounding.
Another bug, tucked into the baseboard near the dresser. He removed it smoothly, continued his ramble. “The problem with most books these days—they don’t take their time. They rush. No patience.”
By the time he returned to the living room, he had four tiny devices cupped in his hand. He strolled toward the kitchen, still speaking about his “book,” then placed them carefully under a ceramic plate on the counter.
When he turned back, his voice dropped. “Clear.”
Relief rushed through her so fast her knees almost gave. She leaned against the counter, clutching the flowers. “There were four?”
“Four I found,” Reeves said. “Probably more, but those were the active ones.” His eyes were serious now, voice no longer for the bugs but for her. “They’re not just listening. They’re gauging. Testing how you grieve. How you cope. Who you trust.”
Emily’s throat tightened. “And you?”
He gave the faintest shrug. “I’m the wrong kind of trust. Which makes me useful.”
He moved closer, lowered his voice. “I met with someone today. A contact in NCIS. Someone I helped years back, when I still wore the badge. He owes me.”
Her eyes sharpened. “And?”
“He confirmed your story,” Reeves said. “Your husband’s CO ordered the file rewritten. Negligence. Taliban took the body. Standard cover. Harris is running point, grooming you to accept it.”
Emily’s breath caught. She gripped the counter tighter. “So it’s true.”
Reeves’s gaze stayed steady. “It’s true. And worse—there are signatures in the file that don’t belong to the Army. Corporate. Medical. That trail leads somewhere uglier.”
She stared at him, numb. “So what do we do?”
His eyes searched hers. “First question: do you want to keep going? Because if we do, there’s no turning back.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then you go back to work,” Reeves said. “Wear the uniform. Play the soldier who’s accepted the loss. Show them you’ve let go.”
She frowned. “Or I could tear out the bugs and make it clear I know.”
Reeves shook his head. “That’s the last thing you want. The moment they know you’re hiding, you’re already dead. Let them believe you’re broken. Let them think you’re playing along.”
Emily pressed her lips together, then nodded. “And what about you?”
“I’ll dig. Quietly. You just keep breathing.”
For the first time in weeks, she smiled—small, tired, but real. “Breathing. Right.”
Reeves walked back to the kitchen, slid the bugs from under the plate, and returned them to the spots he’d found them. When he came back, his tone shifted, warm and casual, pitched for the hidden microphones.
“So,” he said, dropping into the armchair. “What about a movie? Got anything good?”
Emily laughed, surprising herself. “Define good. I have an old DVD collection. Half of it’s junk.”
“Junk’s fine,” Reeves said. “Sometimes bad movies tell the truth better than good ones.”
They talked about films, about books, about nothing important. And for the first time since Daniel’s funeral, Emily felt the weight ease. Reeves wasn’t charming in the usual sense. He was blunt, scarred, rough at the edges. But he listened. And when he spoke, it wasn’t to placate.
Harris had called him poison. But to Emily, Reeves felt like the only antidote she had. The system had spat him out the same way it had discarded her husband: used, broken, unwanted. That made him dangerous. That also made him hers.
As the clock edged toward midnight, she realized something startling: she wasn’t afraid. Not of Harris, not of the bugs, not even of the truth. Because for the first time, she wasn’t carrying it alone.
- Writer
