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  Someone had been in my room.

  I whirled around and scanned the space for intruders, an umbrella clutched in my hand as a makeshift weapon. I checked under my bed, in the bathroom, Lexi’s room, the kitchen, and the living room. I wasn’t an investigator, but I figured I’d watched enough episodes of CSI to know what to look for. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed; there were no mysterious footprints in the carpet, the doors and windows were all locked and didn’t look tampered with, and not a magazine was out of place. It was as if the flowers had simply materialized.

  Returning to my room, I scooped up the bouquet and tossed it into the small wastebasket next to my desk. As I released the stems, sharp thorns tore at my hands. I winced as several drops of blood fell from my fingertips, landing on the black petals in the trash bin and staining them crimson.

  All kinds of red flags were going up in my mind as I thought about the flowers. Who had left them? How had they gotten into my room? What did they mean? Who gives someone black roses with the thorns still attached?

  I wrapped a tissue around the worst of the scratches to stop the bleeding and pulled open my laptop. A quick Google search told me exactly what I wanted to know.

  Black roses, which do not exist in nature, are most often used to symbolize intense hatred or death, though they can also mean farewell, rejuvenation, rebirth, or the return from a long journey in which one did not expect to survive. In folklore, black roses are a foreshadowing of death on the horizon; a person who comes across this ominous flower is likely to suffer their demise.

  Death.

  Someone was sending me roses as a harbinger of my coming death. My heart beat faster at the thought and I felt the walls closing in around me. My mind began to flip through a list of people who might want me killed, or at the very least scared. Gordon came to mind immediately. After the beating he took last night because of me, he might want revenge.

  Another possibility, a suspect infinitely more deadly than Gordon, lurked in the recesses of my mind, but I didn’t dare examine it yet. I didn’t want to even consider him an option. Plus, he was safely locked up in San Quentin. If he’d been paroled, I would have been notified.

  I pulled out my phone and quickly dialed Lexi’s number. When she didn’t pick up on the first try, I hung up and immediately redialed. She eventually answered, sounding slightly out of breath.

  “Brooklyn? Is everything okay?”

  “Lex, have you been here at all today?”

  “No, I’ve been at Ty’s since last night. What’s going on?”

  “There was a bouquet of black roses sitting on my bedroom table when I came home just now. The apartment was locked. I don’t know where they came from.”

  “Did you say black roses?” Lexi whispered, a tremor in her voice.

  “Yes.”

  “I went through a big roses phase when I was helping my sister plan her wedding floral arrangements. Black roses aren’t good, Brookie. They usually mean—”

  “Death,” I cut her off. “I know.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I think I’m going to call the police,” I said, feeling paranoid and foolish but not knowing what else to do.

  “I’ll be right there,” she said, disconnecting the call before I could protest.

  Within minutes, the front door opened and Lexi’s running footsteps could be heard as she made her way to my bedroom. Throwing open my door, she launched herself onto my bed and wrapped her arms around me. I was so stunned that I didn’t even have time to return her hug before she was pulling back to examine my face.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, concern flickering in her blue eyes.

  “I’m fine,” I shrugged. “Just a little freaked out I guess.”

  “Where are they?”

  I nodded in the direction of my trash can, and Lexi leapt off my bed to investigate the sinister bouquet. After a few minutes, she returned to sit on the bed.

  “There was no note?”

  “No.”

  “Have you called the police yet?”

  “I was waiting for you,” I lied. Truthfully, I’d nearly talked myself out of calling. It was probably just a stupid prank. Creepy? Yes. Life-threatening? No. Plus, what could the police do at this point?

  “Brooklyn Grace Turner,” Lexi glared at me, easily seeing through my lie. “We are calling them. Right. Now.” She whipped out her cellphone and dialed the non-emergency number for the local police. As soon as it began to ring, she offered the phone to me.

  “Charlottesville Police Station, how can I help you?”

  “Um, hi. My name is Brooklyn Turner and I’m calling to report… I guess we’ve had a break in.”

  “You guess?” The man sounded exasperated. “Ma’am, if this isn’t a serious call I’m going to have to hang up.”

  “Well, I came home this afternoon and there was a bouquet of black roses sitting in my bedroom. I have no idea how they got there, nor does my roommate. The apartment was locked. And there was no note.”

  “I’ll send someone over to check it out and talk to you. What’s the address?”

  After rattling off our street name and house number, I was assured that an officer would arrive shortly. I handed Lexi’s phone back to her and she quickly grabbed my arm and towed me into the living room.

  To my surprise, Tyler and Finn were sitting on our couch, talking quietly. Their conversation stopped and they both looked up as we entered the room. My eyes met Finn’s and quickly skittered away. I had no idea what to say to him after last night. Before I could move further into the room, Finn was on his feet and standing in front of me, his hands gently clasping my forearm and examining the smattering of dark bruises that Gordon’s hands had left behind.

  I looked up into his eyes, which had clouded over with rage. Seeing the anger there, I tried to tug my arm from his grasp but he held fast.

  “I’ll kill him,” he growled through clenched teeth. I’d never seen him so furious and I definitely didn’t like it.

  “I’m fine, Finn. It’s no big deal, so please relax.”

  “No big deal? Are you kidding me, Brooklyn?” Finn dropped my arm and began to pace around the living room. “He put his hands on you. You have fucking bruises! Please explain what part of that is not a big fucking deal!” He was yelling now, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. Abruptly, he turned back to face me.

  “It is never okay for someone to put his hands on you like that. Please tell me you know that.”

  “I do,” I said somewhat meekly. I hadn’t realized how much the sight of my bruises upset him. “But really, they don’t hurt anymore. And you took care of him last night.”

  “I’d like to do a lot more than mess up his pretty face,” Finn muttered, evidently contemplating Gordon’s murder. To calm him, I placed both of my palms against his cheeks and turned his face toward mine. He startled, clearly surprised by my touch, but as soon as his eyes met mine he seemed to relax.

  “Thank you for last night,” I said, holding his gaze. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

  He pulled in a deep breath and closed his eyes. “You don’t need to thank me.”

  A knock at sounded loudly at the door and I dropped my hands from Finn’s face. Lexi pulled open the door, revealing a middle-aged police officer with a beer-gut, a graying beard, and a receding salt-and-pepper hairline.

  “I’m Officer Carlson. I’ll be taking your statements and looking around the place for any signs of a break in. Can one of you tell me what happened?”

  Lexi got the officer a glass of water and I sat on the couch with him discussing the flowers and their mysterious arrival. After jotting down my statement in a small black notebook, he followed me into my bedroom and examined the bouquet lying in my wastebasket.

  “Well,” he drawled, scratching his protruding belly, “It’d have been better if you hadn’t touched them, of course, but I can take them back to the station an
d see if we can lift any prints off ‘em. It’s doubtful, though. Flowers aren’t exactly ideal for fingerprinting.” He snorted, evidently amusing himself.

  Glad they sent out Charlottesville PD’s finest to help me through this ordeal.

  After bagging the flowers and taking a cursory glance at the front door lock, Officer Carlson left. He promised to let me know as soon as they had any answers about the break in, but I certainly wouldn't be holding my breath. I closed the door behind him and walked slowly to my bedroom, ignoring the identical looks of concern plastered on Lexi, Tyler, and Finn’s faces. I needed to be alone.

  Propping open my window, I slid out onto my rooftop and curled my knees up to my chest. I pillowed my arms on top of my knees, laid down my head, and closed my eyes, trying to regulate my breathing. Somehow, even my rooftop didn’t feel safe today. The creepy flower delivery had me more rattled than I wanted to admit – not to myself and certainly not to the three people inside on my couch.

  In fact, the only time I’d felt safe in weeks was when Finn had swooped in like a freaking knight in shining armor and carried me away from Gordon and the panic-inducing crowds at Styx last night. I wasn’t sure why he had such a calming effect on me. I’d never needed anyone to save me before, and I definitely didn’t want to need someone now.

  I was alarmed to recognize how much I enjoyed Finn’s company – how often he made me laugh, how I’d find myself smiling against my will in his presence, how he’d forcefully reacted to seeing me hurt. Despite all that, I wasn’t sure he felt anything for me, other than desire to add me to the long list of bimbos he’d screwed.

  I’m not sure how much time passed as I sat out on the rooftop. Dusk had begun to descend and the sun crept ever closer to the horizon. I heard the sound of my window sliding open, and Finn’s muffled curse as he maneuvered his tall frame through small opening. I didn’t turn my head to acknowledge him as he settled in next to me.

  He was on my rooftop. Lexi had never even been out here with me. I should’ve felt violated or incensed at his intrusion into my private space, but somehow it felt right to have him here. He’d shared his highway lookout point with me, after all.

  I waited for him to speak, but he remained silent. After a few minutes, he slipped his leather jacket, which he must’ve found hanging in my room, around my shoulders and wrapped an arm around me. I hadn’t realized how cold I was until his warmth was pressed against my side.

  “Want to hear a bad joke?” Finn asked.

  I turned my head to look at him and cocked one eyebrow. Was he being serious? He didn’t exactly seem like the comedian-type.

  “I’ll take your silence as tacit approval,” he said, pausing to collect his thoughts. His eyebrows pulled together as if he were deep in thought. “What do you call a pony with a cough?”

  I looked at him blankly.

  “A little hoarse!” Finn laughed, evaluated my less-than-amused expression, and became contemplative once more. “Hmm, no luck with that one. Okay, why couldn't Dracula's wife get to sleep?”

  Again, I failed to give him a reaction.

  “Because, Brooklyn, she was up all night with his coffin.” He sighed dramatically. “That one was obvious! If I didn’t know better, I’d think you weren’t even trying to answer these.”

  When I still didn’t laugh, Finn rolled his eyes. “Jeeze, tough crowd. Okay this is my last one. Mostly ‘cause I don’t know any more jokes. Baby, do you play Quiddich?”

  I think my mouth fell open in shock. He couldn't possibly be making a Harry Potter joke…could he?

  “‘Cause you sure look like a Keeper to me,” he finished, smiling broadly.

  I couldn't help it -- I burst into laughter. “You like Harry Potter?” I asked incredulously.

  “What kind of question is that?” Finn asked, his cheeks flushing slightly pink with embarrassment. “Everyone likes Harry Potter,” he grumbled. “Don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah. I’ve just never heard a guy admit to it before.” I dissolved into giggles at his obvious discomfort. “Seriously, where did you get those jokes? They’re pretty terrible, just so you know for any future attempts at cheering up sulking girls.”

  “Oh, believe me, I know how bad they are. My little sister taught them to me a while back, though, and I can’t seem to forget them. Plus, they made you laugh…eventually.” His eyes crinkled up as he grinned playfully at me.

  He was gorgeous all the time but seeing him like this, so boyish and lighthearted, made him even more attractive. My heart seemed to turn over in my chest as I took in his profile: the chiseled jawline, his perpetually messy dark hair, that freaking adorable dimple, and those stunning cobalt eyes. I leaned into his side and pressed a feather-light kiss to his jawline, settling my forehead into the hollow of his throat before he had time to react.

  “Thank you. Again.” I laughed. “It seems like I’m always thanking you for something these days.”

  Finn kissed the top of my head and shrugged. “What are friends for, right?”

  Hmm. So we were still just ‘friends’ in his eyes. I pocketed that little nugget of information away for future dissection.

  “So you have a little sister?”

  “Step-sister, technically. I was adopted when I was ten.”

  “Oh.” I wanted to know more, but was afraid to ask. If he told me his story, would I be obligated to tell mine?

  “Yeah, my biological parents died when I was eight. Car crash. I spent a handful of years in foster and group homes before my adoptive parents found me. They saved my life.” His tone was reflective – there was no sadness in it, just a contemplative acceptance of his past. I didn’t apologize for his loss, because people had been telling me how sorry they were for fourteen years, and it had never changed a damn thing for me.

  “I—” I broke off, cleared my throat, and tried again. “I spent some time in a group home too.” Turning my face into the crook of Finn’s neck, I blocked out the world and my voice dropped to a whisper. “Eventually, my biological father came and took me home with him. I’m not sure why he bothered; its not like he had any interest in raising me.”

  We fell into silence for a time, watching as the stars slowly began to emerge in the darkening sky. We’d both left things unsaid, but it didn’t feel strange. It was oddly comforting to know that he had things he wasn’t ready to share yet either.

  “It’s nice up here,” Finn whispered. “Peaceful.”

  “Yeah,” I murmured, closing my eyes and thinking my rooftop had never felt so safe. I put the flower incident out of my mind, and tried to savor the feeling.

  Finn and I eventually made our way back inside, joining Lexi and Tyler for pizza and a stupid Will Ferrell movie that was on TV. It was a blissfully normal ending to a horrible day.

  Chapter Eight

  Worthwhile Fears

  The next week was remarkably boring. It was a refreshing change after the drama of my panic attack and the appearance of the sinister bouquet. Lexi and Tyler were still attached at the hip, but were spending more of their time at our apartment. I think they were worried about leaving me alone, which was sweet but completely unnecessary.

  I filled my days with homework and classes, and occupied my nights by knocking some books off my lengthy TBR list. I didn’t see Finn at all, and I tried to convince myself that it didn’t bother me. I did, however, see Dr. Angelini again. I told her about the flower incident and how Finn had cheered me up with corny jokes afterwards.

  “You’ve mentioned Finn several times now. Is he someone you’re interested in romantically?” Dr. Angelini asked.

  “I don’t date,” I responded instantly.

  “That wasn’t my question, Brooklyn.”

  “He’s different,” I said, struggling for the right words. “When he looks at me, it’s like he sees past all the bullshit barriers I’ve put up and gets a glimpse of the real Brooklyn – the one nobody knows. The one even I forget exists sometimes.”

  “How does that ma
ke you feel?”

  “Scared shitless, if I’m being perfectly honest,” I said with a grimace. “That can’t be healthy right?”

  “Well, in my experience, it’s usually the things we’re most afraid of that end up being the most worthwhile,” Dr. Angelini said, a small smile curving her lips.

  “That’s deep, doc,” I teased, falling silent as the weight of her words washed over me. “The thing I’m most afraid of is forgetting her,” I murmured.

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes. I have a few photos of her, so I can still see her face when I want to. But the little things – how she smelled, the sound of her laughter – those are the things I feel slipping away.”

  “What is it you remember most clearly about her?”

  “Singing. She was a musician. I don’t have many memories without her humming under her breath as she composed a new melody in her head. We used to sing together.”

  “Do you still sing?”

  “Only in private, and only when I’m feeling particularly masochistic. I have an old guitar I found in an antique store a few years ago. I taught myself to play in high school, thinking it might make me feel more connected to her memory.”

  “Did it work?” Dr. Angelini asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly, shaking my head back and forth. “I never really pursued it.”

  “I think you should.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “I think you should find a coffee house or a karaoke bar or even a street corner and perform. Just once, to see how it feels. In fact, that’s your assignment before you come back to see me.”

  “You’re giving me homework?” I asked, incredulous. “You’re my shrink, not my professor.”

  Dr. Angelini smiled placidly. “Your time for today is up, Brooklyn. I look forward to hearing all about your musical debut at our next session. “ She stood and ushered me into the hallway, closing the door firmly behind me. I stared back at her closed door, my mouth hanging open in shock.

  This was going to be a disaster.