The greenhouse stood at the edge of the old district, hidden behind overgrown ivy and rusted gates.
Elara had visited it twice in the past week, always under different guises, pretending to admire the rare orchids. But she wasn’t here for flowers.
She was here for the gardener.
He was a man in his late fifties, all smiles and gentle talk about soil pH, but Elara had learned what hid beneath — a predator who preyed on teenage girls working in his shop, keeping them silent with threats and violence.
Tonight, she arrived after midnight. The air smelled of damp earth and rot. Inside, moonlight filtered through cracked glass panels, bathing the rows of plants in silver. She moved quietly, a shadow among shadows.
He was there, as she knew he would be, tending to his “special” collection — p
