Chapter 1: The Flowers Had to Go
The root snapped before Margaret understood what she was seeing.
She had been carrying a basket of gardening gloves from her garage when she heard the sharp little crack from across the front yard.
She looked up.
A woman was kneeling in the middle of her flower bed.
Not just standing there. Not admiring the flowers. Kneeling among them as if the garden belonged to her.
Karen Whitmore—an oversized woman in her early sixties with a short light-brown bob, a pale-blue cardigan, beige capri pants, and white sneakers—held one of Margaret’s red flowers in her fist.
Its roots hung exposed beneath it.
Margaret froze.
Then she saw Karen yank another.
“Put that flower down!”
Karen turned slowly.
For one second, neither woman moved.
Then Karen looked at the uprooted flower as though it were evidence of something offensive.
“That ugly red has GOT to go!”
Margaret walked quickly toward the bed.
“Those are my flowers.”
Karen rose with effort, brushing loose soil from her cardigan. Her expression wasn’t embarrassed. It was irritated, almost offended that Margaret had interrupted her.
“I’m cleaning this place up,” she said. “Those awful red flowers make the whole street look cheap.”
Margaret stared at her.
For twenty-three years, she had tended that garden herself. The red flowers had been her late husband’s favorite color. Every spring, she planted more.
Nobody had ever complained.
Karen pointed toward the remaining plants.
“You should have known better than to plant so many of them.”
Margaret’s shock began turning into something colder.
“You don’t touch another flower.”
Karen scoffed and bent toward another plant.
Margaret caught her wrist before her fingers reached the stem.
“Get your hands off me! I’m fixing your yard!”
“It’s my yard.”
Karen jerked free.
Then, in a burst of anger, she threw the uprooted flower straight at Margaret.
The blossom struck Margaret high on the cheek before dropping onto the mulch.
For a moment, the only sound was the wind moving through the leaves.
Margaret looked down at the crushed flower.
Then she looked at the line of uprooted red plants Karen had left beside the garden.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
All red.
None of the neighboring flowers had been touched.
Margaret slowly turned her head toward the house across the street.
There was another garden there.
Another patch of red flowers.
And from where she stood, Margaret could see something that made her stomach tighten.
That garden had been damaged too.
Several red plants were lying on the ground.
Roots exposed.
Freshly pulled.
Margaret turned back to Karen.
Karen followed her gaze.
The smugness disappeared from her face.
For the first time, she looked nervous.
And Margaret realized this wasn’t simply about her garden.
Someone had been doing this before she ever walked outside.
