Leila
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They didn't just send a flower.
They sent a warning.
A dead lily doesn't say hello.
It says we saw you. We never stopped watching.
I stand there for a full minute, knife still in hand, pulse pounding like war drums behind my ribs. The kind of sound you hear before bombs drop. Before someone pulls a trigger. Before the sky splits open and screams fall out.
I should run. But I don't.
Instead, I pull the lily off the window and hold it close. It smells like damp rot and old perfume like the inside of a funeral parlor that no one visits anymore.
Like my grave.
The motel room presses in around me. The walls creak, floorboards moan, and somewhere under the bed, I swear I hear a sigh.
Paranoia? Maybe. Or maybe not.
Because if they know I'm back, then nothing is safe anymore. Not this room. Not the bed I lie in. Not the breath I take.
Especially not my sister.
Cassie.
The image of her laughing with Julian replays in my head like a broken reel. Her hand in his. Her mouth painted in the same blood-red lipstick I wore the night I died.
I should've knocked on the glass. Screamed her name. Ripped her away from him.
But what if she looked me in the eye… and didn't flinch?
What if she already knows what he did?
What if she helped?
I light a cigarette. I don't smoke. Haven't since college. But something about the fire calms my hands, makes me feel like I'm still made of flesh and not just bones rattling in borrowed skin.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the card again.
We know you're back.
Not I. Not he.We.
That word, small, but violent. It means Julian isn't alone. It means the rot runs deeper. That my name wasn't the only one on their list.
I grab my notebook the one with the coffee stains and duct-taped spine. I turn to the page with the names, the ones I've circled and underlined a hundred times.
Julian Ward Miriam Crest Detective Tomley Eric Vale Cynthia Marks Unknown #6
I add a note beside the last name:
Sent the flower? Knows I'm alive?
Then I circle Cassie's name beneath it.
I don't want to.
But I have to.
It's almost dawn when I step outside.
The sky is bruised purple, still half-asleep, as I head toward the subway. The city doesn't care that I was murdered here. That I clawed my way out of the dirt like something feral and forgotten.
It just breathes. Neon and indifferent.
I ride the train to the outer boroughs, to a building I swore I'd never see again.
My childhood home.
The neighborhood looks the same except smaller. Childhood always makes things seem taller, louder, more magical. But now? The trees look sick. The grass is yellowing. The old dogwood tree we used to climb is dying, its bark peeling like sunburned skin.
I walk past Mrs. Heller's porch. She's dead now. I remember her funeral Cassie cried for two days. I didn't cry at all.
My mother's house sits like a secret at the end of the street. Curtains drawn. Porch light off. Same peeling green paint. Same wind chime that hasn't made a sound since Dad left.
I shouldn't be here. I know that.
But I need to see her.
Cassie.
I knock once.
Silence.
I knock again, harder this time.
I hear footsteps.
And then… the door cracks open.
It's her.
She's in a white robe, hair pulled into a messy bun, eyes puffy with sleep. Her face is softer now. No longer the little sister with scraped knees and chipped teeth. She's a woman.
She doesn't recognize me.
Of course she doesn't.
I'm supposed to be dead.
She stares, confused, then concerned.
"Can I help you?"
My voice catches. I didn't plan what to say. I never thought this moment would come so soon.
But it spills out anyway.
"You look just like her," I whisper.
Her eyes narrow. "Who?"
"Leila," I say.
Me.
The change in her is instant.
Her entire face drains of color.
She steps back. "Who sent you?"
"No one. I just… I used to know her. I was a friend. From before."
Cassie swallows hard. Her lips tremble.
"I don't talk about her."
"Why?"
"She's dead."
I take a small step forward. She doesn't close the door. That alone tells me everything.
She's hiding something.
"She didn't deserve what happened," I say carefully.
Her hands twitch at her sides. She doesn't meet my eyes. "You should go."
"Did you love him?" I ask.
That gets her attention.
She looks up. And for one terrifying second, her face mirrors mine.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Julian Ward," I say.
Boom.
She slams the door in my face so fast the wind hits my cheeks.
I stand there, heartbeat stuttering.
Then I hear something behind the door.
Crying.
Muffled. Angry. Regretful?
I don't know.
But I hear one word clear as thunder:
"Leila."
She said my name.
She remembers.
I head back to the motel, but I don't sleep.
I lie awake, staring at the flower on the nightstand. Dead. Wilted. Still whispering to me in the dark.
By the time the sun fully rises, I know what I have to do.
I need to see Miriam Crest.
The woman who hated me.
The woman who shredded the files.
The woman who knows why Julian did what he did.
I shower, dress in black, and leave my knife tucked in the back of my boot.
Downtown. Corporate hell. The Haven Post tower again.
I don't go through the front door.
Instead, I find the alley. The back entrance. I still remember the passcode on the keypad: 4189.
It beeps green.
Some codes never change.
The freight elevator creaks and groans its way up to the sixth floor Legal and Executive Offices. Miriam's domain.
I slip into the hall like a shadow.
Her door is open.
I peek inside.
She's there.
Gray suit. Reading glasses. Staring out the window like she's waiting for something.
No.
Someone.
She turns before I can duck away.
Her eyes land on me.
And she smiles.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Just that same smug little smirk I remember from every meeting she tried to get me kicked out of.
She steps forward, heels clicking like gunshots.
"Well," she says, voice ice wrapped honey.
"I was wondering how long you'd wait before showing your pretty little corpse."
"You always did love rising from the dead, Leila.
Let's see how long you last this time."