The wind shifted before it struck.
Tricia was back in the greenhouse just after dawn, fingers brushing over the lavender stems as sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling. The calm hum of bees filled the air, and for once, everything felt… still.
Too still.
Celeste had invited her to meet again—to take fresh cuttings, to share tea in the warmth. But Celeste was late. No call. No message.
Tricia checked her phone.
No service.
She frowned.
That was odd. The estate always had perfect reception.
She stepped outside.
And that’s when she saw it.
A single rose—blood red—laid across the stone steps of the greenhouse.
Tied with black ribbon.
No note. No explanation.
Tricia froze.
Then the silence cracked.
Boom.
A thunderous explosion ripped through the east wing of the estate. Gl
