wood creaks at places, but the stony built is solid.
Two medium-sized sofas decorate the lounge area that overlooks the kitchen. The grey hue of early morning hours spills from the small window covered by orange curtains.
I turn on the coffee machine that Lisbeth, the town’s florist, gave me as thanks for volunteering in the shelter. She said it’s a Christmas present from her son, but she doesn’t like or understand the thing.
No idea how Ghost and Mist got a house like this, but I’m beyond thankful. It’s the perfect escape.
Once the coffee is ready, I pour it in a mug and step outside.
Fresh air penetrates my nostrils, and I breathe it in with a sigh. I stand on the porch overlooking the flowers’ field. Hundreds of bright tulips cover the land in a symphony of colours. A few spring bulbs peek here and there. Violet and orange hues fill the sky in the distance as the sun rises.
It’s my favourite time of the day. The world is silent and it’s only me and nature. I sip my coffee on the porch, then I wear my apron, gloves, and go into the fields.
I’ve been making a decent living by selling these exquisite flowers to the florist in town. Thank God I don’t have to pay rent or I would’ve been thrown in the streets.
Birds’ chirps welcome the day from above even though the sky is starting to get gloomy. Every time there’s an overcast sky, I can’t help but remember those eyes. He’s always been as flippant as the weather.
Seriously, where’s that ‘time heals everything’ when I need it? Shadow can’t keep popping in my head all day, every day. But again, I should know more than anyone that time can’t heal everything.
I focus on cultivating tulips with careful, steady hands. As much as I love doing this and volunteering at the shelter, this can’t be a permanent stay for me.
There has to be somewhere safer where I can raise my child. I can’t go back to the forces. Part of the deal with Mist and Ghost was that they’d stage my death.
One: because their leader – whoever that is – needs proof that Ghost killed the traitor.
Two: so the police lets my case rest.
Three: because of Shadow. If he thinks I’m alive, he’ll go to all lengths to find me and that includes putting Liam and Elle’s lives in danger. If he thinks I’m dead, he won’t approach them.
A slash of grief grips me when I think of my surrogate family. I even lost the bracelet she gave me during that atrocious day. I don’t want Liam and Elle to think I’m dead, but if it’s to protect them from Shadow, I’ll do anything. Ghost agreed to keep my death news as a last resort, so I’m hoping he sticks to his part of the deal.
“This mobster business is nothing compared to the world we came from.” Mist told me that day when I insisted on knowing what they really are. “We’re killers for hire. Murder is all that we know. I like your bravery, Zoe, and I don’t want you to end up as collateral damage. If you want to protect yourself, stay away from people like us.”
I know Mist is no-nonsense but hearing those facts crushed the truth home. In all those years, Shadow has been separated from Nonna, he’s been turned into a killer.
At times, I wonder how that feels and if any of them had a say in it. Mist, Ghost, and Shadow seem so assertive about what they are. They’re ruthless, calculative people who fit the cold-blooded image. But are they heartless? Perhaps.
But perhaps they aren’t. Perhaps deep down, there’s another side to the story.
Not that I should care. Damn me.
I carry a basket of newly-cultivated tulips and place it in the front of my bicycle. After removing my working clothes, I climb and hit the long road. Trees decorate the distance. The house is a bit isolated from the town, but a good twenty minutes ride on the bicycle every morning is brilliant.
Mr and Mrs George, the owners of the florist shop, greet me with huge northerner smiles.
They’re both big and look so healthy for a couple in their sixties. Then again, most people in York aren’t stress-bitten and their life rates are undoubtedly higher than us in the South.
Mark takes my basket, nodding in approval about my picks. After he hands the flowers to his wife, Lisbeth, he asks. “Fancy a cuppa?”