“That’s right. Never give them anything to follow far, no more than a step or two forward.” A shrewd smile carved into his face. “Before turning them the wrong direction with a red herring or two.”
“That’s why you gave the guy at the rental car place a fake driver’s license and paid with cash.”
“One of several fake driver’s licenses in my possession, and yes, always pay with cash. Always.”
“But they require a credit card in the event of damage,” I argued.
“True, but there’s always some shady rental company with a seedy manager who’s willing to overlook a credit card on file in exchange for a generous gratuity.” Noah bounced his brows at me. “One of the many tips of the trade. I’m also a fan of public transportation. Mix up your methods, and there’s no pattern to track.”
“Okay, information overload.” I rubbed my temples. “I’m convinced you are the master and I barely qualify for fledgling status.”
Noah chuckled, squinting to read the next road sign up ahead.
“We’re getting close to the first house.” He checked the house numbers when he turned on the next street. It was an older part of town, small houses where pride of ownership still thrived. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”
“I’m sure.”
“If there’s any type of surveillance I see or sense, we’re on to the next house. We’ll have a florist make the delivery. This isn’t worth getting caught on some doorbell camera or neighbor’s surveillance video.”
“I understand.” Reaching into the back seat, I made sure to select the correct pot before resting it in my lap. The first of six white clematis plants we would deliver tonight. Noah didn’t personally deliver the plants following a kill—he left that to some local floral company—but tonight was special. From this night on, we were a team. “Is it strange that what saved our marriage was this? Conspiring and committing crimes the general population would never consider, let alone condone?”
Noah glanced at me, a surprised tenor in his eyes as he pulled up to the curb, careful to keep the car spaced between houses.
“Yeah, I suppose it is.” He shifted in his seat after putting the car in park, staring out the window. “But when I really stop to think about it, maybe not.” His hand found mine without looking, our fingers braiding together. “I knew that young woman I noticed from across the room one April night was going to change the world one day. And here she is”—he smiled at me—“changing it.”
His words sent a balm of calm through me, taming the nerves. “At least this corner of it.”
“Lots of people to tend to lots of corners,” he replied simply. As though this was the answer to all of the questions.
While I pulled my hair into a quick braid, he watched me, the corners of his eyes creased. “You seem different.”
“I am different,” I replied, knowing it was more than my exterior that had changed. Turning to him, I was exposed, no layers left to hide behind. No makeup or highlights, off the pills and alcohol, naked from the skin of numbness I’d coated myself in for years, I felt free.
Noah twisted in his seat so he was facing me, his eyes earnest. He stared at—admired— me in a way that needed no translation. “The same, but different,” he said at last, slipping his hand into mine in the gesture of a handshake. “I’m happy to meet you, Grace.”
The warmth of his skin bled through my glove, rooting inside me until I could feel his presence within. “Happy to meet you too, Noah.”
His lips brushed mine, lingering as he inhaled slowly. “We’ve got work to do,” he whispered before leaning back into his seat.
In sync, we looked at the first house we’d be visiting tonight. Like the rest of the homes on the street, it was dark, tucked away for the night. Unlike the other homes, this one had fallen into some degree of disarray. The yard had been neglected for a while, the windows lacked a luster that suggested regular cleaning, and no signs of any children living inside were visible from the outside.
Around this house, bikes and balls littered lawns, chalk drawings decorated driveways, and tiny shoes dotted porches. But not at this house. This one was still reeling from loss, a wound that refused to heal. It was a home that exuded suspicion, shades drawn in a way that suggested it was more than light they were trying to keep out. One could feel the pain pulsing from the confines of those walls, sense the innocence lost, the raping of childhood.
When a ragged exhale emitted from my lips, Noah reached out to me as though he felt the same pain I was experiencing. I knew he did, though in a more intimate way.
Natalie’s assault, and her ensuing suicide, had changed him wholly. Just as the past few months had changed me, making my past self seem like a cheap fabrication of the true version that had been waiting its turn.
Like Noah, I’d managed to fix myself by breaking.
To properly repair oneself, sometimes you had to break entirely. Bending wasn’t enough—a total break was the only way to mend what had gone wrong. It was the same way with society. Some problems could not be fixed until they’d been snapped in half and put back together in a new manner.
My eyes dropped to the plant in my hands, two words etched on thick paper stock.
For Grace.
It didn’t seem insignificant that I was to leave this first surreptitious gift for a child who shared my name. Both of us had lost our innocence, though I would use the loss of mine to avenge the stealing of hers. Because of a sick human’s inability to cage his malice, a dark stain would mar the rest of her life, sneaking up on her when she least suspected it, visiting her happy moments decades from now with its reminder of its permanence. It wasn’t right.
From the driver’s seat, Noah took his time scanning the home for any signs of home security, his vigilant eyes sweeping the nearby houses with the same degree of scrutiny. “It’s time,” Noah whispered.
I didn’t need a moment to compose myself—not one. I was ready, seemingly created for this. I sprang from the car and strode powerfully up the walkway of the house where a young girl slept within, fighting nightmares of both the sleeping and waking variety. It made the fire within me burn that much hotter.
Kneeling at the front door, I placed the white clematis in the center of the stoop, adjusting it so the note was facing the door. A plant seemed an insignificant thing to leave at the doorstep of a family who’d been through what this one had, but the images of Jean Price and Sue Wolff tending to theirs, plants growing into something that could not be easily ripped from the soil, quieted my doubts. It was more than a starter plant that would offer white blossoms in the summer. It was a symbol. A reminder. A promise.
Adjusting the note so it was straight, my gloves brushed the dark soil surrounding the clematis. The underrated, overlooked component that was essential to the well-being of the organic life it fostered above the surface.
The plant could not survive without what resided beneath the ground. It needed the soil to thrive, the debris and filth to secure its roots and allow them to spread unhindered.
For life to prosper—for flowers to cultivate—the dirt and darkness resting below was necessary. The grime was vital, an essential component. Every gardener knew you couldn’t sustain life without getting your hands dirty every now and again.