White Lillies

The Bow Creek Diner is hotter than the devil’s armpit in July. Thick dark curls clung to my neck as another sweat droplet made its way down my back. I always hated southern summers.

"Francine, there’s no chance you could turn on the A/C?” I asked desperately before downing more tepid black coffee. Francine, a middle-aged stocky woman with hands full of stories, pointed to the room's back corner.

“It’s on, Julie,” she grumbled, wiping her syrup-covered hands on her discoloured pink uniform. The “owner” subheading on her name tag faded years ago; there was no use replacing it, everyone in Bow Creek knew Francine owned the diner, same way we knew Danny owned the car-repair joint and Mrs. Rossum made the best poke cake.

I groaned before glancing hopelessly at the worn-down A/C whirring in the corner, rusted and covered in cobwebs. Drip, drip, drip. Water leaked from the filter onto an electrical lead. One day this place is gonna burn down, I thought.

My anxieties were interrupted by a deafening ringing from the door, signaling a new guest. Some day-drunk idiot knocked the bell a few weeks back, messing up the casing or some other bell-making component I’m not an expert on. Ever since, the noise has been unbearably loud, especially when you’re nursing a hangover (which I totally wasn’t doing).

“When are you gonna fix that goddamned bell?” I complained, covering my ears.

“Are you gonna keep complaining or order something that isn’t coffee? My no-assholes policy includes detectives too, you know.” Francine accosted me like a mother tired of her whining child.

“I was waiting for my partner, Franny. Eating before your guest is rude.”

Francine rolled her eyes and returned to attacking the lemonade stains on the bench, a smile teasing her lips. I didn’t have to look up to know the diner’s new patron was William Cullen, my baby-faced partner with dreams bigger than his action figure collection. He always moved quickly, but without any purpose in his stride, creating a strange staccato step pattern with his arms locked by his side. He was also the only one to shut the diner door behind him when he entered, which I thought was adorable.

“What took you so long, kid? We’ve got two dead bodies and no leads,” I scolded Cullen as he took the coffee-stained seat next to me. “Short stack of pancakes for me and my partner, Fran,” I smiled at Francine, raising my eyebrows like “See? I’m not always an ass.”

“Three dead bodies, Katz.” Cullen corrected, running a slender hand through his blond hair. Three victims? The second killing was just last week. That meant the windows between killings were getting smaller. If we wasted any more time, Bow Creek’s population would be halved by Halloween.

“Hold on, you run here from the station?” I asked incredulously, suddenly noticing his flushed face and heavy breathing. Cullen shrugged, chest still heaving up and down.

“You said…” Inhale. “...9:00am…” Exhale. “I didn’t want to be late,” he finished. Jesus, this kid was a tryhard. I raised an eyebrow, motioning for him to keep talking instead of sitting there like an idiot. Well, I thought the last part in my head.

“Oh, right, uh...” Cullen whipped out a brown file and passed it to me. I started flicking through the pages as he narrated what was on them. “Cops found her last night. Isabella Manson, 25.” A knot formed in my stomach. I used to play with Isabella on the train tracks when we were kids. I heard she had two little sisters she took care of full-time. I wondered who would look after them now.

Cullen’s clipped Chicago accent encased every word as he continued to read out the police notes. Only a month in Bow Creek and he’d already earned the nickname “Chicago Cullen” - one I wasn’t sure he was aware of. He told me Isabella was found dead in her house when her sisters’ cheerleading coach dropped them home. She was perfectly poised, with her arms crossed over her chest. It was late into the night, but she was in an elegant dress with hair and makeup done to the nines, just like the other two victims. Francine served us our pancakes, shuddering at Cullen’s description of her injuries.

“Crossed arms can signify remorse...” I muttered, my finger tracing Isabella’s report. I tied my hair into a ponytail, providing a small degree of relief to the back of my sweat-covered neck, and swung down the last of my coffee. “We need to go down to the station. Draw up an profile. We already know a lot,” I instructed Cullen, throwing some cash on the sticky countertop.

“Could… could I get these in a to-go bag?” Cullen asked Francine, pointing to his half eaten pancakes. I scoffed; I was already half-way towards the exit. Three people murdered and this kid wanted his pancakes in a to-go bag.

“Are you kidding me, Cullen?” I snapped, turning back to the door when I saw the colour drain from his face. Weirdly, my heart warmed a little as I remembered how my old partner used to scold me the same way I scold Cullen. I had big plans for him.

--

Bow Creek’s police station was impossibly cluttered and smelled like mothballs, but at least it had A/C. Our entire police department - seven officers - swarmed around desks and walked back and forth between boards like ants. An older woman named Marsha Davies pinned up a Isabella's headshot next to the two previous victims. Her face twisted as she stepped back, gazing at Isabella’s picture, squinting and shaking her head. She had a daughter around Isabella’s age. She looked like she was about to cry.

Cullen and I pushed through the chattering uniformed officers to our office. I felt judgemental eyes on Cullen; he was what.. twelve? Some officers had worked here for decades and all of a sudden this “detective” blows in from Chicago and gets his own office? I understood their discontent, but Cullen had a good heart. He kept his head down until I shut the door, putting Isabella’s file on my desk.

“They don’t like me,” Cullen stated, leaning back against his smaller desk, almost knocking over the framed photo of his mom. I glanced out through the office’s thin blinds at the swirl of officers muttering amongst themselves.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said simply, flipping through the previous victims’ files. Trudy Jones-Harper. Cal McCloud. And now Isabella Manson. Why would anyone hurt these people? Trudy kept to herself, Cal was a church-goer with four boys. Isabella's two sisters that were now all alone.

"Trudy had her hair and makeup done like Isabella, right?” I asked.

“Yeah.. yes, I think so. And Cal. Well, he didn’t have makeup. Just a suit and… and a tie.” Cullen said nervously, like I was a school-teacher ready to berate him for the wrong answer.

"There's nothing indicating a team of killers. I think we have a female suspect on our hands, William. The makeup.. the attention to detail.. it all points to a woman. We need to refine our profile, get a suspect list going.”

“A female killer?” he questioned, almost excitedly. “Like.. like Aileen Wuornos? You know, Julie, I heard once she only killed men if th-”. Someone had been watching too many crime specials.

“No, Cullen,” I cut him off. “Not like Aileen Wuornos. And don’t call me Julie.” After two hours of honing our profile, we finally had something feasible. Our office was a minefield of papers, five instant coffee cups crumbled in the bin. Cullen was still drinking his first.

“Okay,” I declared, stepping back. “She has to be at least an adult, physically fit, to overpower a man like Cal. We can rule out anyone young, elderly, or disabled. She’d be single, definitely have her own car.”

“Also, not crazy weird. Had to convince them to let her in the house, right? No forced entry?”

“We would usually say off-putting, Cullen. Crazy weird's a bit insulting.” Cullen nodded, embarrassed. I grabbed a black whiteboard marker, striking a line through the name “Sandra Charmers”. She was injured fishing three weeks ago and has been in two wrist casts ever since. Three names remained on the board.

“Alma Strupp, Delaney Flores and… Eliza Carter?” Cullen read. “Eliza could never do.. she baked me a pie when I first got here. And, and! She’s one of the only people who doesn’t call me Chicago Cullen,” he declared matter-of-factly. I chuckled to myself. So he did know about the nickname.

“Never know, kid. Last murderer I arrested was a sweet young boy who killed his granny. We need to interview all these women. I would send one of those guys,” I thumbed in the direction of the uniformed officers, “But I don’t trust them to ask the right questions.”

Cullen smiled like a proud son. “So.. I’d go on my own?" He scanned the names. “To Ms. Flores? You could take Strupp.” he said hopefully.

“What, and get yourself killed by some crazy lady? We’re going together, obviously.”

“You said to say off-putting, not crazy.”

“I’m sick of you, Cullen.”

--

The drive to Strupp’s farm was mostly silent, save for the soft twangs of country music on my busted radio. I was more partial to easy-listening, but this one cop spilled 7-UP on the channel dial and now I can only listen to Carrie Underwood. I have a “no-drinks-in-Katz’s-car” policy now. I have a lot of policies. Policy one: Don’t work with dumbass kids from Chicago. That one was flexible. Policy two: buy produce from Louisa Carmichael, not Alma Strupp. I was reminded why when we pulled into Strupp’s driveway.

The stench of cow feces immediately seeped through the car windows, twisting Cullen and I’s expressions into similar grimaces. I narrowly dodged a squashed rotting orange laying sadly on the ground when I stepped out of my sedan. Cullen squinted fiercely, holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the midday sun. Of course he forgot sunglasses on a ninety-five degree day.

Heat waves radiated off the crunchy gravel as we made our way towards the farmhouse. A panting dog lay exhausted on the veranda, his water bowl muddied and busy with thirsty flies. A singular brown cow gazed emptily at us as we knocked on Alma’s door.

No response.

“Alma? It’s Detective Katz. Julie? From the station?” I called into the house. Silence.

“Maybe she’s out?” Cullen offered, peering through the curtains to the humble living room. I sighed. After knocking for two more minutes to no avail, we set off back to the car.

“Shoo! Shoo!” A noise came from some distance away.

“Is that..?” Cullen trailed off.

“Alma,” I nodded. “We forgot to check the barn.” This kid was really dragging me down.

The Strupp Farm barn was even more withered than the farmhouse, maroon paint peeling off every slat of wood. A barn owl sat perched on the roof, turning its head sporadically as lazy cats slept in the limited shade the barn created. Suddenly, a goat was flung out of the main door closely followed by a woman holding a broom like a sword.

“Shoo, you bleating bastard!” yelled Alma, prodding the goat with the handle end of her broom. Her eyes widened when she noticed Cullen and I staring at her, quickly smiling as if nothing had happened.

“Detective Julie,” she beamed, her tight lips opening to reveal corn-coloured teeth. “I was just sweeping the barn. You here to buy fruit? Vegetables? Cows? You know, folks around town are buying from Louisa Carmichael, but they don’t know what she sprays those carrots with. Look around! All natural here!” Alma held her tanned arms out boastfully. A small chicken pecked at a rotten corn husk next to her brown boots. Definitely all natural.

“Uh, Mrs. Strupp, Detective Katz and I are here to ask you abou-” Cullen started, but a quick elbow jab shut him up.

“Alma…” I began sincerely. “You heard the terrible news about Isabella Manson? Killed, just last night.” I knew how to talk to the locals. A hint of accusation in our voices and that broom would probably end up against our throats.

“Oh, yes,” Alma nodded sadly, running a hand through matted blonde hair. “I can’t believe what this town has become. Used to be able to leave your door unlocked at night, but now… these crazies are making me scared to take the dogs for a walk.” Her voice was rough and scratchy after decades of smoking.

“Alma, we're here to make sure you’re safe,” I assured her. Her concerns were a good jumping off point for finding out some key information. “Are you staying home at night? Not going anywhere alone?”

“‘Course, Julie,” she replied. “I got a new fixture for my gate a month ago, after Trudy was killed. It's open during the day for lovely visitors such as yourselves,” she winked at Cullen and he chuckled awkwardly. “During the night, though…” she led us over to the gate my car was parked behind. “Need a code to get through it.”

Sure enough, a metal keypad sat on top of the gate post. A blinking black box beside it caught my eye. Alma noticed and excitedly rushed to it.

“This! Modern technology just blows my little old mind. See this green dot? It turns red whenever someone passes through, and records it on my telephone,” Alma explained, delighted. “Watch.”

She flicked a switch on the back of the box and walked through the gate, dashing back to show off her new toy. She retrieved a small cracked phone from her overall pocket and pointed at the new entry.

11:47 AM - 25/01/22 - Motion Detected

“Wow, Alma,” I feigned excitement. “Could I see those? I might just buy this for my own house.” I grabbed her phone and started scrolling through rows of records.

“It’s great, right? It’s that.. what's it called? Motion sending?”

“Motion sensing?” Cullen asked as I scanned through the text. My eyes searched with fervour for the dates of Isabella and Cal's deaths. Last night… there's Isabella’s.. no movement. Cal’s… again, nada. She was home for both. Suspect eliminated.

“You know what, Alma, we’ll let you get back to sweeping. Thanks for your time,” I said sweetly, handing her phone back. Cullen glanced at me, confused as to why we were abandoning our suspect so fast. I just shook my head in response and opened the car door.

“Oh, well, alright then!” said Alma cheerfully. “Thanks for dropping by, Julie and…” her voice trailed off as she looked at Cullen.

“Oh, uh, William,” he smiled, then corrected himself, “Detective William Cullen.”

“Good luck, kids.” We drove away.

--

I answered Cullen’s question before he asked it. “She was home for the previous murders,” I stated, tapping the steering wheel along to Ring of Fire. “We can’t prove she was home the night Trudy died, but I can guarantee whoever killed the others killed Trudy too.”

Cullen nodded in understanding.

“So.. next stop Delaney Flores?” Cullen asked.

“Mm-hm," I affirmed. "Lives above her flower shop. Nice lillies, I have some on my birch shelves at home. You ever felt the difference between birch and oak? Completely different woods.” I swatted a fly away from my face.

Why was I telling this kid about my birch shelves? Maybe he was growing on me.

Johnny Cash’s guitar was interrupted by Cullen’s stomach growling loudly. I rolled my eyes and opened the glovebox, chucking the kid a granola bar.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

“Flores is pretty highly-strung, so I'm doing the talking, capisce?” I instructed Cullen. “Her husband died of some disease last year, ever since then she’s been crazy about germs. So no coughing, sneezing, chewing with your mouth open, got it?”

“O mit hur,” he replied through a mouth full of nuts. He swallowed and started again: “Sorry, hmm, I met her. Kinda wei-... I mean, off putting.”

Cullen’s honesty wasn’t always welcome, but I knew what he meant. Delaney reminded me of a collector’s doll, the ones you’re not supposed to take out of the box. She was never without makeup, and her platinum hair was always in a ponytail. Even her southern drawl wasn’t as noticeable as the rest of ours; she always spoke like she was on TV.

After Samuel died, she started leaving the house less, and became one of those neurotic germaphobes. Her shop had always been clean, but lately it was a whole ordeal to even enter. Wipe your shoes on the mat, disinfect your hands, please don’t touch that. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

As I swung left onto Delaney’s street, I was flagged down by one of her neighbours.

“Detectives!” wheezed Tex Munston. Tex was creeping into his 60s, and he and his wife had recently started jogging the same route as me. Key word: started. He huffed and puffed his way towards the car as we pulled over.

“I was.. wondering.. if you could tell us.. anything about the murders,” he managed, face red as a tomato.

“We’re heading to someone’s house right now for questioning. Trust me, Tex, if we find out anything useful to the public, you’ll be the first to know,” I assured him, anxious to carry on to Delaney’s house.

“Someone’s house?” He raised a thick eyebrow. Great, more questions. “Mind if I ask who?” Actually, I do mind, Tex.

“Not at all,” I smiled. “We’re just rolling down to Delaney’s flower shop, see if she knows anything,” I said. Cullen bounced his legs nervously.

“Delaney Flores?” questioned Tex. “God, she ain't right. Wouldn’t even accept Trina’s casserole after Samuel died. Probably thought it had some horrible virus in it. Oh, and when Trina came home from work, she saw her smoking on her balcony. In the dark! Said her hair looked all crazy like.”

“Home from work?” I repeated. “What time she come home?”

“11 at night. She has to commute from Josephville, you see, the closest hospital is a ways away.” Tex’s words registered in my mind, and I glanced at Cullen.

“Well, thanks Tex, and just like I said, if we know anything, so will you,” I nodded and pulled away from the curb, making a U-Turn out of the street.

“Why aren’t we going to Delaney’s store?” Cullen wondered aloud.

“Cullen, 11pm,” I replied. He stared at me like I was speaking Greek. “11pm!” I repeated. “The report estimates Isabella died at 10:45. Her house is 20 minutes away from Delaney’s. You’re telling me she killed Isabella, then raced home in 15 minutes to smoke on the balcony?” I asked rhetorically. Cullen’s eyes widened with realisation.

“So… it must be Eliza. I mean, who else?” he said, inhaling the last of his granola bar.

“I guess we better find out where Eliza Carter was last night."

--

I’d always liked the drive to Eliza’s edge of town. It took you over the water that gave Bow Creek its name, past the train tracks and through a winding maze of oak trees hugging the road like a ribcage. I felt oddly sentimental as we passed the old town hall, the swaying trees creating moving shadows on the roof.

Come to think of it, I'd seen Eliza at the town hall only a few weeks ago. Bow Creek was still reeling from Trudy’s death, but we gathered for a sombre 4th of July party nonetheless. I was talking to Officer Cortez about the prints found in Trudy’s kitchen when…

Crap.

I slammed on the brakes and exhaled defeatedly.

“What the… hell Katz?” Cullen exclaimed, offended. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry, sorry,” I responded, punching the dashboard in frustration. “It’s not Eliza. She didn’t kill those people.”

"Well… why not? Are you sure? Katz, what are y-?” Cullen questioned as I got out of the car and began to pace back and forth on the pavement. “

Eliza can’t do blood.. When.. when we were.. Ugh!” I groaned, realising we had absolutely no leads. What was I supposed to tell all the folks like Tex, waiting for answers?

“When you were what, Katz?” Cullen prompted, snapping me back to reality. I’d been working solo for so long before Cullen arrived I sometimes forgot he couldn’t read my mind.

“The 4th of July party, in the town hall,” I pointed across the street at the large white building. “Jolie Rossum cut her hand when she was slicing the poke cake. Wasn’t a big cut, she was fine, but the blood made Eliza pass out,” I recalled.

I placed my black sunglasses back on my eyes and kicked a stray pebble onto the road. The setting sun wasn’t too bright, but I didn’t want Cullen to see my eyes welling up with tears of frustration. I exhaled and tried to focus on what I knew.

“The hair, the makeup, it was all done post-mortem. There’s no way Eliza would’ve been conscious long enough to apply it considering the wounds the victims suffered, Cullen. It’s just not…” My voice trailed off as I leant back against the car.

There’s always a silver lining, my dad would’ve told me. At least we didn’t drive all the way to Eliza’s for nothing. Now we have more time to… to what? All of our suspects are ruled out. I closed my eyes and shook my head.

When I opened them, I saw something strange across the road. It was Delaney Flores, but a different Delaney Flores. Her hair was out, curls sticking to her neck much like mine. Her signature simple pearl necklace was replaced with a tacky daisy chain, peach pink lipstick nowhere to be seen. I waved my hand for Cullen to follow me over to her. I wasn’t sure what she could offer, considering that according to Tex, she was home last night, but at this point, any new information was welcome.

“Delaney!” I called out, but she didn’t look up. It was only when I stopped in front of her and said her name once more that she acknowledged me.

“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry,” a charming voice replied. “People have been calling me Delaney all day. I’m her sister, Tori. Twin, obviously,” she chuckled, throwing up her hands humorously.

I scanned her face as she talked. She had Delaney’s features, the same sharp nose and glassy blue eyes, but certain aspects were different. Her smile was wider, and there were more wrinkles around her eyes. Her hair was the same platinum blonde, but not straightened. The breeze tossed her curls across her face and she swiped them away with press-on nails. I suddenly remembered what Tex told us just half an hour ago. Delaney was smoking on the balcony, hair all crazy like.

“Where were you last night, Delan… Tori?” questioned Cullen, two steps ahead of me. “I’d only just flown in from New Orleans, to visit Laney. She was out though. Had to make up my own dinner and have a smoke by myself! So much for southern hospitality.”

Everything clicked into place. We'd only ruled out Delaney because she was accounted for during Isabella’s murder, but everything else made sense. The anniversary of her husband’s death could've triggered her, and she wasn’t exactly known for being the most sane citizen of Bow Creek. She was middle-aged, fit, single. I knew without a doubt she was our killer.

“Thanks, Tori!” Cullen called out as we raced back to the car, flooring it towards Delaney’s store.

--

Laney’s Flowers was empty and silent, the door sign flipped to “closed”. Cullen and I checked each room, as well as Delaney’s living quarters upstairs, not knowing what to expect.

I knew there was a chance Delaney was just staying at a friends last night, not murdering Isabella Manson, and we could be back to square one before we knew it. My pessimistic thoughts were replaced with fear when I discovered a small white notebook in the top draw of the checkout desk.

I began to sweat as I inspected the uniform lines of black pen.

“Cullen..” I whisper-shouted, but he didn’t hear me. “Cullen!’ I barked, and he jogged over to the desk. “Look at this. Trudy Jones-Harper,” I read aloud, my voice threatening to shake. “Brought filthy puppy into flower store, refused when asked to remove him. Left muddy paw prints that took twenty minutes to scrub out.”

Cullen pointed at a new name and took over reading. “Cal McCloud. Brought sick child to supermarket, didn't wipe nose or instruct to cover cough once.”

“Isabella Manson,” I whispered. “Neglected to sanitise hands on four separate occasions before entering store.” Realisation dawned on me as I pieced together what these three entries had in common.

“She’s killing dirty people,” I uttered. Cullen directed my attention to a fourth name below Isabella’s, one unfamiliar to us.

“Beau Carpenter?” he read, confused. “Shows disregard for infectious black mould on outside of house, in close proximity to flower store. He’s not a victim, though, right?” Cullen looked at me for an answer.

“Not yet,” I replied, pointing at the first three names. “Look, there's a tick next to all these names. Not Carpenter. He’s next.”

“In close proximity to flower store..” Cullen reread, twisting his brow in confusion. “So he must b-” his thought was cut off by an almighty scream coming from next door. “... must be her neighbour,” Cullen finished his sentence as we scrambled to Beau’s house.

I held my gun firmly with two hands as we shuffled inside Beau’s wide-open door. I instructed Cullen to call for backup as I called out into the house.

“Beau? Everything okay in here?” I yelled, tightening the grip on my gun.

“Police have sent two cars,” Cullen whispered. I nodded in response.

“Delaney?” I called out again. Another wail pierced the silence; this time we could tell its direction. We rushed into the living room, towards the sound.

In my years as Bow Creek’s lead detective, I’d become more unfazed by strange and violent sights. However, seeing the local flower girl with a knife to her neighbour’s neck definitely earns a spot in the hall of fame of strange. Beau was terrified, grimacing as the cold metal brushed his skin.

“Delaney,” I started in a soft voice. “Look at Beau. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“His house…” Delaney groaned, her air of perfection all but gone, revealing an angrier unhinged side of her I’d never seen. “His house is making people sick. Look around! It’s filthy,” she spat, not releasing her grip on Beau.

I decided to follow her command, taking in my surroundings. Not to agree with a murderer or anything, but Beau’s house was filthy. Piles of half-empty plates populated the kitchen bench, a muted odour of mildew filling my nostrils as I took a step closer into the living room.

“Delaney,” I started again, taking a different approach. “You’re right. It’s disgusting, filthy.” Beau looked at me, taken aback. I just nodded at him. "Trust me," I mouthed. “He needs your help, Delaney. To fix it.” Delaney relaxed and looked up at me, her eyes shining.

“Help…” she muttered. “I can help him,” she nodded. I sighed with relief. Delaney’s knife was inches from the floor when the sound of harsh footsteps turned everyone's heads toward the front door.

Four uniformed officers drew their guns high and started yelling over the top of each other. With rough hands, they shoved me and Cullen aside and walked quickly towards Delaney, guns in her face. She gasped and looked around like a frightened child, instinctively gripping her knife and plunging it towards Beau’s jugular.

“Delaney, no!” cried Cullen, leaping on top of Beau, shielding him from the knife. Crimson red stained his blue button-up as he cried out in pain. The following minutes blurred together, moments overlapping each other as I tried to piece together what'd just occurred.

Ambulances replaced police cars as Delaney and Cullen were taken to the police station and the hospital, respectively. Beau wasn’t hurt, physically, but the his quivering voice reminded me of the days following my first field case. I made a mental note to check up on him after everything settled.

Cullen’s hospital room was disgusting. The pale white walls and smell of disinfectant reminded me of Laney’s Flowers, a building now covered with police tape and evidence markers. It didn’t matter. Tex Munston’s wife, Trina, was the lead doctor on his case, and she assured me he’d be able to come home soon.

I wouldn’t say it to his face, considering the whole stab wound situation, but the daily forty minute drive to Josephville Hospital was getting really old. I sat in the worn blue chair next to Cullen’s bed and shoved him awake; I had something to show him. Turns out, Beau Carpenter is the Chief of Police’s brother-in-law, and she was thankful for our efforts last week. Very thankful, judging by the size of the bravery medals she awarded Cullen and I.

“Look, kid. Matching medals.” I placed his award into his hand. “One for you.” He smiled weakly at me, running his fingertip over the engraved letters.

“This better not say Chicago Cullen,” he joked.

“I think you’ve shaken that nickname for now.”

The first thing I did when I came home from Beau's house was dump the faded lillies I'd bought from Delaney three weeks ago. I wasn’t sad to see them go. Sure, the white flowers were pretty, but the gold award shone brighter in the light. It complimented the birch much better, too.