the right direction. I cursed in annoyance that the delivery people sometimes refused to make their way down my twisty, two-mile driveway and tended to leave bulky things atop or beside my mailbox by the road. Luckily, nothing had been stolen so far. I put on my raincoat and decided to go by foot to see if they had brought me something, but then changed my mind and drove up by car. Above me, I heard the familiar buzzing. The drone again? I leapt out of my Land Rover but could see nothing. Hear nothing. Just the sound of distant cars on Highway One and the far-off lapping of ocean waves.
On top of my mailbox was a long parcel. Curiosity overriding my nerves, I ripped it open immediately. Inside was a huge bouquet of flowers. Scarlet roses. Not a usual bouquet covered in transparent plastic, but chic, expensive, long-stemmed roses, tied with a silk ribbon to match. Like something out of a classic movie. It made me furious that these beautiful flowers could have dried up, that the delivery guy had just dumped them at the top of my driveway without sending me a text message, which is what Interflora would do, surely? I searched for the company’s logo, so I could call and rail at them about bad customer service, but there was no logo, just the flowers. Then I saw a note attached.
I looked around to see if anyone was there—had I imagined the sound of the drone?—but the lane was quiet, just some rustling of the last, dead autumnal leaves sailing to the ground and the faint breath of briny wind. I pushed my hair away from my lips and eyes to see clearly what was written.
HERE.
LOOKING AT YOU.
My heart hammering, I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t see the elegant roses.
All I could focus on was their thorns. And the color: the deepest darkest red.
The color of blood.
Six
I called all the florists, Interflora. Everyone. Nobody admitted to sending the flowers. I spent hours googling, but was none the wiser. Who the hell had sent them? I stared at the note again, written in capital letters on thick, baby-blue card, probably in the handwriting of someone from the flower delivery company. But not being able to trace the source, it gave me no clue at all.
HERE.
LOOKING AT YOU.
I was being spied on, no doubt about it now.
My first instinct was to lock myself in the house, but I decided to check my land, furious, suddenly, that I couldn’t just go out and buy a German shepherd or Doberman for protection. Should I call the police? And tell them what? I was sent expensive flowers with an enigmatic note? They’d laugh. And I didn’t want them sniffing around. I would tell Mr. Donner though. Someone should know about this.
I grabbed my Thermos and marched out the door, full of bravado, willing myself not to be spooked.
Just after I passed through my garden at the top of my woods, I heard voices in the pines. They came and went, carried along by the husky wind like chattering birdsong and then floated towards me again. A man. Throaty laughter. Girls giggling. A tangle of happiness.
And then I saw them coming closer, and I stopped dead. It was them. The sibling trio I’d seen on the beach. How old were they? Early twenties? Very young anyway. Even more attractive than the binoculars had allowed me to believe when I’d spied on them picnicking. They were on my land. I shuddered. Coming from the direction of the beach, they would’ve had to climb over the bit of broken fence and clamber through huge aloe vera plants with their tenacious spikes. Brazen, considering the gun laws in this country. Considering I could be a pistol packer with the right to defend my property. I stood my ground, my Thermos and binoculars flung across my shoulder, my rain hat skew-whiff.
I wanted to confront them and ask them what the hell they were doing on my land, but the strangest words flew out of my mouth. “I’m bird-watching, and you?” Perhaps I said this because I didn’t want them to know I lived here (woman alone, vulnerable). Or perhaps I was excusing myself and asserting myself all in one breath. Excusing myself for going around with a flask of champagne masquerading as coffee? Why did I even care what strangers thought? But I did. The fallout of being judged by someone was my Achilles’ heel. That