The Lie Hidden in Roses Chapter 04

The Lie Hidden in Roses Chapter 04 The Suitcase

My hand stopped halfway to my mouth.

For a second, the fork almost slipped from my fingers.

“How did you know that?”

“I saw it in your recent calls,” he said.

He set my phone on the table between us.

The screen was still awake, bright and damning, with the call history open for both of us to see.

I had forgotten Rowan knew my passcode.

Apparently, this man knew it too.

“You were gone for three days.” I said. “No calls, no texts, nothing. Of course I was worried.”

That part, at least, was true.

Over those three days, I had called him forty-seven times and sent more than a hundred messages. Not one

of them had been answered.

I had even called his company, but the only response I got was a polished, useless statement: Mr. Hale was currently away on business, and his exact schedule could not be shared.

“You scared yourself.” he said, smiling as he reached over and mussed my hair.

The pressure of his hand was right.

The angle was right.

Even the timing was right.

“It won’t happen again,” he promised. “From now on, when I’m traveling for work, I’ll check in every day.”

After dinner, he stood at the sink washing dishes while I sat on the couch and pretended to watch whatever

was on TV.

My thoughts would not slow down.

If he was bold enough to walk into my apartment and sit across from me wearing Rowan’s face, then he had to believe I could not expose him.

He knew Rowan’s habits.

He knew my passcode.

He knew the small rituals between us, the ones no stranger should have known.

Maybe the roses were not a mistake.

Maybe he had left them there on purpose.

Was he trying to find out whether I remembered the code?

No.

That did not make sense.

Finished

If he did not know what red roses meant, he would not have chosen them. The roses proved he knew the, code existed.

So why use them?

Unless he wanted me to run.

But if he was the threat, why warn me?

My mind went back to the rose petal.

Rowan must have written the message in a hurry. The ink had feathered slightly into the soft red surface, as if he had shoved it away before it had time to dry.

The petal had been hidden in the pocket of his jacket.

The jacket had been shut inside the closet.

The closet door had been closed.

I slipped my hand into my pocket and felt the petal there, thin and fragile against my fingertips.

Why had Rowan known this was coming?

Had he been hiding something from me the whole time?

Had he come into my life for reasons I never understood?

I told myself no.

We had met in the library at Ravenshore University. I had dropped an armful of books, and he had crouched to help me pick them up. We started talking. A few minutes later, we discovered we both loved the same strange old movie no one else ever seemed to know.

It had felt random.

Sweet

Ordinary.

But now I could not stop wondering if ordinary had only been the cover story.

What if Rowan had never met me by accident?

What if I had been part of something from the very beginning?

I took a slow breath and tucked the petal deeper into my pocket.

Not now.

I could not afford to spiral.

Finished

The only thing that mattered was finding out who the man in my apartment really was and what had happened to Rowan.

Late that night, he fell asleep before I did.

I lay beside him with my eyes open, staring into the dark.

The bedroom was almost black except for a blade of moonlight slipping through the curtains, cutting a pale line across the floor.

His breathing was slow and even, heavy with sleep.

I eased myself out of bed.

Every movement had to be careful. Too careful. I felt like I was moving underwater, each shift of my body stretched thin by fear.

Whenever the mattress gave the smallest creak, I froze and waited.

His breathing stayed the same.

I made it out of the bedroom, crossed the living room in the dark, and opened his suitcase again.

This time, I searched properly.

I checked every pocket, pressed along the seams, and peeled back the inner lining.

It was Rowan’s old black suitcase, the one he had used for the past three years. One wheel always dragged, and the handle had gotten loose enough to wobble whenever he pulled it through an airport.

Every trip, he said he needed to replace it.

Every trip, he didn’t.

At the bottom of the inside compartment, beneath the lining, my fingers touched paper.

I pulled it free.

It was a folded note.