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“Reception. Allison signed for it.”

“Ask her whether she remembers the courier, if there was a return address, anything unusual.”

“I will.”

After we end the call, I set my phone beside the unsigned card and study the arrangement filling my office.

Half an hour ago, the flowers felt like the sweetest surprise I’d received in years. Now they feel like another piece of a puzzle neither of us knows how to solve.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Bane

MAY 7TH

Five days after the flowers arrive on Emma’s desk, I spread the packages across my dining table again because I still can’t accept that the arrangement belongs outside the pattern forming in front of me.

The children’s book sits beside the note addressed to Babs and Biddy, with the photograph of Celeste outside Haven House rests near the cream card that came with it.

Every picture tells part of a story.

Someone your mommy helped.

I place Emma’s card beside them and read the message again.

For making me smile.

The wording is more personal, and Emma received flowers instead of a piece of Celeste’s past, but the delivery arrived without a name or return address.

Whoever sent the packages to my daughters chose every detail with care, and I can’t dismiss another anonymous gift simply because it looks romantic.

People repeat themselves through timing, preparation, and the mistakes they don’t realize they’re making. Whoever arranged these deliveries knows where my daughters live, where Emma works, and exactly how to make each recipient lower their guard before asking questions.

Sprout circles beneath the table until he drops across my feet with a tired groan that suggests my investigation has inconvenienced him personally.

“I’m aware,” I tell him as I reach for the photograph.

His tail knocks once against the floor, and he settles his chin over my shoe while I study Celeste standing between four women outside the shelter.

I’ve examined the picture enough times to remember the damaged brick beside the entrance, the child balanced on one woman’s hip, and the way Celeste turns toward whoever made her laugh before the camera captured them.

Mom recognized Haven House from the building, and Emma believed the photograph had been chosen to direct me there. I’ve spent too much time studying the faces when whoever sent it may have expected me to look beyond them.

I remove the photograph from its sleeve and carry it beneath the lamp in my office, where the uncovered finish reflects the bulb more clearly. As I tilt the picture, a faint blue trace appears near the bottom edge and disappears when I change the angle.

The mark comes from the reverse side.

I turn the photograph over and move it beneath the lamp until shallow grooves emerge across the backing. Someone must have written on paper resting over the photograph, pressing hard enough to leave the letters behind even though the ink never touched it.

After opening the center drawer of my desk, I take out a soft pencil and a sheet of printer paper.

An FBI agent once showed me how graphite could expose impressions left beneath a written page, although he followed the lesson with a long warning about contaminating evidence and destroying anything that might later matter in court.

This belongs to my family, and I need the answer more than I need to preserve an untouched photograph.

I lay the sheet over the back and run the side of the pencil across the paper, using light strokes until dark graphite gathers around the grooves.

The first letters appear near the edge, followed by the rest of the word as I adjust the photograph and continue shading.