Detective Gray had been on the road since dawn, the kind of dawn that didn't really rise — only bled slowly into the mist. Clare View Point was still half asleep, its streets slick from the night's rain, its air thick with the sour tang of sea and soil. The motel sat at the far end of town, a smudge of rust and vacancy, its neon sign flickering like a dying pulse. He parked across the road and stared at the door marked 219.
That was the number written on the note — a cheap napkin from a diner, the ink pressed too hard, the looping hand careful but not careless. They'd lifted the print patterns, but there wasn't enough. No DNA. No partials. Only the handwriting. Gray had compared it to everything — guest books, complaint forms, signatures — until one name circled back: Seraphine Brisbois.
The handwriting wasn't identical, but it had that same quality — the same soft, deliberate pressure. Like someone who believed even their lies deserved elegance. He shut off the engine, leaned back in the seat, and stared at the motel one last time before turning the key again. The car hummed, exhaust curling into the cold air like breath. He had a new direction.
Seraphine Brisbois — widow of Marcus Brisbois, missing five months. No remains. No suspects. Gray had read her file twice before remembering he'd met her once, years ago, when she'd come in to report Marcus missing. She'd sat perfectly straight, her eyes wide but dry. There'd been something unsettling about her calm — like grief rehearsed for an audience that never arrived. He hadn't forgotten it. Some people leave impressions without trying.
Her house sat near the edge of town, on a narrow street lined with old trees that dripped rainwater like veins bleeding sap. The front yard was modest, neat — a small gate, white paint flaking in strips. But what caught his attention wasn't the house. It was the backyard. From the side of the fence, through a gap in the slats, he saw it: a bed of sunflowers, tall and unnaturally bright against the gray. They swayed gently in the damp wind, their heavy heads bowed as if ashamed to be alive. The soil beneath them was dark, too rich. Freshly turned.
Gray made a silent note in his book:
Sunflowers — same as the symbol at crime scenes.
He closed the notebook and approached the front door.
Seraphine opened it before he knocked.
"Detective Gray," she said, voice smooth, unsurprised. "It's been a while."
He nodded once, hat in hand. "Miss Brisbois."
"Mrs.," she corrected softly. "Even if he's gone, I'm still married, technically."
He studied her face — poised, pale, hair pinned back in loose dark waves. She was the kind of woman who made stillness look intentional.
"May I come in?"
"Of course. Though I warn you, I don't keep coffee in the house anymore. It reminds me of… Marcus. He liked it."
She stepped aside. The interior smelled faintly of lemon oil and rain. Everything was arranged with careful precision — no clutter, no misplaced items, just quiet control.
He followed her to the sitting room, where a single sunflower sat in a glass vase by the window. Its petals had just begun to wilt.
"Lovely flowers," he said, feigning casual.
"They're resilient," she replied. "Even when the weather isn't."
Gray smiled faintly. "You grow them out back?"
"I do. They're good for the soil."
He took a slow breath, filing away the repetition. Good for the soil.
She gestured for him to sit. He remained standing. "I just need to ask you a few questions. Routine follow-up."
"About my husband?" she asked, folding her hands neatly.
"Partly," he said. "And about something else. Do you mind if I record?"
She tilted her head, lips curving in a faint, unreadable smile. "Of course not. I've nothing to hide."
He set his recorder on the table and clicked it on. The red light blinked between them like a heartbeat.
"Mrs. Brisbois," he began, "I'm reopening an investigation that may be connected to your husband's disappearance. A recent case at the Clare View Motel. Are you familiar with it?"
Her gaze flickered — barely perceptible. "I heard something on the news. Terrible, really."
"Man found dead in a bathtub," Gray said evenly. "Murdered. No prints. No witnesses. But a note was found. Handwritten."
He reached into his coat and slid a photograph across the table. "Recognize this?"
She leaned forward, eyes scanning the picture. The note — blurred slightly by flash — was clearly visible. See you soon, Seth.
Her expression didn't change, but her pulse ticked once at her throat. "I'm afraid not. Who's Seth?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."
She looked up at him then, smiling politely but cool. "And you think I can help with that?"
"Possibly. We ran an analysis of the handwriting. It shares several traits with yours — same curvature, similar pressure points."
He watched her reaction carefully. Nothing. Just a soft inhale, a small nod.
"That's interesting," she said. "I suppose it's true what they say — handwriting says a lot about a person."
"Sometimes it says more than they want to."
Her eyes glinted at that. "Are you accusing me of something, Detective?"
"Not yet."
She rose, slow and fluid, and walked to the window. The faint outline of the sunflower bed was visible through the lace curtain.
"When Marcus went missing," she said softly, "I remember you asked if I believed he was alive. Do you remember what I told you?"
"You said you didn't know," he stated.
"I still don't." She turned slightly, her silhouette framed by pale light. "But I do know that people rarely just disappear. They leave traces. Notes. Habits. Handwriting, perhaps."
He studied her profile — the stillness, the restraint. Everything about her seemed measured, as though she'd rehearsed being ordinary until it became performance art.
"You garden often?" he asked.
"Whenever the weather permits."
"Seems like a lot of work, keeping all that soil turned."
Her eyes flicked to him. "You've been looking in my yard."
"I notice things."
"I'm sure you do."
The air between them shifted — taut, deliberate. She wasn't intimidated; she was amused.
Outside, a car idled quietly at the curb. Seth watched from behind the wheel, one hand resting loosely on the steering column. From this distance, he could see Gray's unmarked sedan, the faint glow of movement behind Sera's curtains. He'd been here since morning, unable to stay away. Something in him needed to be near her — to understand if she felt the same unspoken connection that haunted him.
But the sight of Gray's car twisted that connection into something else entirely. The detective again. Always too close. Seth tapped his thumb against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. Thrice. If Gray was inside, it meant he was asking questions — questions that might eventually lead to answers neither of them could afford. He leaned forward, jaw tightening. You're in the way, old man.
Inside, Gray closed his notebook and stood. "That's all for now. But I may need to follow up."
"Of course," Seraphine said pleasantly. "I do hope you find whoever's responsible."
He paused near the door. "Do you?"
Her eyes met his. "I don't like unfinished stories, Detective. They tend to repeat themselves."
He frowned slightly at that, then nodded. "If your husband contacts you — any sign, any message — do let me know."
"Of course."
He turned to leave, but something made him glance back — a small framed photograph on the shelf by the door. Marcus Brisbois. Smiling. Alive.
Only the background caught his eye: a field of sunflowers.
He looked back at her. "You've always liked those, haven't you?"
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "They thrive on decay. I find that poetic."
When the door finally closed behind him, Seraphine stood very still. The silence pressed in, heavy and certain. Through the window, she watched Gray walk to his car, take one last look at her house, and drive away down the wet road. She waited until the sound of the engine faded before exhaling. Her hands trembled only slightly as she turned away from the glass.
The detective wasn't stupid. He'd noticed the sunflowers. He'd seen the soil. He knew enough to be dangerous. But danger, she thought, had a way of drawing the right people together. She stepped outside, into the cool after-rain air, her bare feet sinking slightly into the soft ground. The sunflowers loomed around her, heavy with water. She brushed her fingers along their stems, whispering something too soft to hear.
When she reached the farthest corner of the bed, she knelt and pressed her palm against the earth. It was still damp, still pliant. She could almost feel the pulse of what slept beneath.
From the street, Seth watched her. He saw her kneel, saw the way she touched the ground like it was sacred.Something inside him shifted — part recognition, part dread. He'd suspected for days now that she was like him. But seeing it — the tenderness in the gesture, the reverence — confirmed it.
She wasn't pretending. She was thrilled.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Then he saw her look up — directly at him. Across the street, across the haze, her eyes found his. She didn't flinch. She didn't move.
Just watched him, calm and knowing.
Then, without breaking gaze, she rose and turned toward her door.
The message was clear. Wait.
Detective Gray, meanwhile, had pulled over at the end of the street, checking his notes in the fading light. The name Seth Karlsson circled and underlined twice. He didn't like coincidences, and this case was full of them — the sunflower link, the handwriting, the missing husband, the quiet widow who smiled too easily. He flipped to the photograph of the motel bathtub scene. The smear of blood. The sunflower stem floating in water. He turned the page. The file photo of Seraphine's husband — dark hair, sharp jaw, broad shoulders.
And then the still frame from the motel's security camera: Seth Karlsson walking away from the scene. Gray frowned. Something about the posture — the way the man's head tilted, the build — looked familiar. Almost identical.
He whispered under his breath, "Well shit."
The resemblance wasn't perfect, but it was close enough to be unsettling.
What if Marcus Brisbois hadn't disappeared? What if he'd become someone else?
He shut the file abruptly, pulse quickening. Too many what-ifs. Too much not proven. But he'd been in this game long enough to know — the truth never waited politely.
By the time he drove back past her street, night had settled fully. Seraphine's windows were dark. No sign of life.
But Seth's car was still there.
Gray slowed, frowning. A dark sedan, unfamiliar plates. He noted the make, the color, the partial registration. Scribbled it down.
When he looked back up, the driver's seat was empty.
Seraphine opened the door before Seth could knock. The same way she had for Gray.
"You shouldn't be here," she said quietly.
"Neither should he," Seth replied.
For a moment, they just looked at each other — two predators pretending to be people.
"He's starting to connect things," she said finally. "He's good at that."
"So am I."
"Then you know what that means."
Seth stepped closer, the space between them shrinking like breath in cold air. "That he's going to be a problem."
She didn't move. "Most problems are temporary."
Her voice was low, almost gentle.
Outside, the wind shifted, brushing through the sunflowers, making them whisper in unison — a soft, mournful sound.
Seth glanced past her, toward the backyard. "You buried him there, didn't you?"
She didn't answer.
He smiled faintly. "You really do like poetry."
Something flickered in her eyes — something close to admiration. "And you, Seth Karlsson — what exactly do you like?"
He leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. "Control."
She smiled. "Then we understand each other."
Outside, beyond the fence, the sound of tires on wet gravel faded into the distance — Detective Gray driving away, unaware that inside that quiet house, two killers were finally on the same page.
And beneath the sunflower bed, the soil shifted — ever so slightly — as if the earth itself was listening.