I didn't sleep that night.
At 6:45 AM, I was already at Riverside Park, sitting on a bench near the east entrance. The morning air was cold, and the grass beneath my feet whispered about frost and coming winter.
Plants in public spaces were different from the ones in my shop. They absorbed hundreds of voices, thousands of conversations. The oak tree behind me was a mess of overlapping whispers—marriage proposals, breakup fights, kids laughing, old men complaining about politics. It was white noise, mostly. Easy to ignore.
Mostly.
A woman jogged past, earbuds in, not looking at me. An old man walked his dog. Normal morning stuff. I checked my phone. 6:52 AM.
Maybe she wouldn't show. Maybe she'd thought better of meeting a strange florist who asked too many questions about her dead father.
Then I saw her.
Claire Hendricks walked toward me wearing the same tired expression from yesterday, but she'd changed clothes. Dark jeans, a gray hoodie, hair pulled back tight. She looked around twice before sitting down on the opposite end of the bench, keeping distance between us.
"You came," she said.
"So did you."
We sat in silence for a moment. A jogger passed by. The grass whispered about footsteps and morning dew.
"Why did you ask how my father died?" Claire said finally. "In the flower shop. Why did that matter to you?"
I couldn't tell her the truth. Couldn't say that a lily had whispered secrets to me. So I went with the safer version.
"You seemed... I don't know. Like there was more to the story."
"There's always more to the story." She turned to look at me properly for the first time. "But most people don't care enough to notice."
"I'm not most people."
"Yeah. I figured that out." She pulled her sleeves down over her hands, even though it wasn't that cold. "My father didn't have a heart attack. The police told us that yesterday. They're calling it suspicious death now. Possible homicide."
The grass beneath the bench went quiet, like it was listening.
"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it.
"Everyone's sorry. Nobody's honest." Her voice was hard. "You know what the police asked me? If my father had enemies. If anyone wanted him dead." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I gave them a list of forty-three names. Just off the top of my head. Want to know how many people came to his wake? Eight. Including me and my sister."
I didn't know what to say to that.
"He wasn't a good man," Claire continued. "I'm not going to pretend he was just because he's dead. He built his company by destroying others. Sued people into bankruptcy. Bought out family businesses and gutted them. He made enemies the way other people make breakfast."
"Then why—"
"Why do I care who killed him?" She turned away, staring at the river. "Because he was still my father. Because the last time I saw him, three weeks ago, he called me and said he needed to tell me something. Something important. Something about my mother."
The tree behind us rustled, even though there was no wind.
"Your mother?" I asked.
"She died when I was sixteen. Cancer, they said. Ovarian cancer, stage four, went fast." Claire's hands clenched into fists. "But my father, on that phone call, he said that wasn't the whole truth. He said there were things I didn't know. Things he should have told me years ago."
My chest tightened. The carnations in my closet whispered across the distance, reminding me of other deathbed secrets, other truths left buried.
"What did he tell you?" I asked.
"Nothing. He said we needed to meet in person. Said it wasn't safe to talk on the phone." She pulled out her phone and showed me the call log. "That was November third. I told him I'd come visit that weekend. November fifth was when he died."
Two days. He'd been dead two days before he could tell her.
"The police think it's just a coincidence," Claire said bitterly. "Rich guy makes enemies, rich guy dies, probably one of the people he screwed over finally snapped. Case closed, eventually. But I don't believe in coincidences."
Neither did I.
The grass whispered: Not coincidence, not coincidence, timing matters, timing matters.
"Why tell me this?" I asked. "You don't know me."
"Because you noticed something was wrong in under five minutes. The police have had three days and they're treating this like every other rich-guy murder." She turned to face me fully. "And because when you looked at me in that flower shop, you looked like you understood. Like you'd lost someone too, and nobody believed you when you said something was wrong."
My breath caught.
She saw it in my face. "I'm right, aren't I?"
The carnations whispered louder. My mother's voice, twelve years old, preserved in dead flowers: Find out the truth, find out the truth, promise me.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "You're right."
Claire nodded slowly. "Then help me. Help me find out what my father knew about my mother. Help me find out who killed him before they could talk."
"I'm a florist. Not a detective."
"I don't need a detective. I need someone who gives a damn." She stood up. "My father kept files. Lots of files. Business records, personal documents, everything. The police took some, but not all. I have access to his house. Will you help me look?"
Every rational part of my brain said no. Said this was dangerous, said I should go back to my quiet life arranging roses and listening to plants complain about temperature.
But the plants in this park were all whispering the same thing now: Truth matters, truth matters, some things shouldn't stay buried.
I stood up.
"When?" I asked.
Claire smiled, but it was sad. "Tonight. After dark. I'll text you the address."
She walked away before I could change my mind.
I sat back down on the bench and put my head in my hands. The oak tree behind me whispered: Too late to go back now. Too late, too late.
Yeah.
I knew.