"Says here it's a gift. No return address though." He brought it up the steps and handed it over, along with a tablet for me to sign. "Someone must really like you."
I signed quickly, my stomach doing an uncomfortable twist. The box was surprisingly light, wrapped in plain brown paper with just my name written on it in unfamiliar handwriting. No return address, no indication of who it was from.
"Thanks," I managed, and the courier gave another wave before heading back to his van. I carried the box inside, setting it on my kitchen table and staring at it like it might explode. Who would send me something? The pack? But surely they would have included some kind of note or indication it was from them. Viola? Same issue—she would have said something.
My phone buzzed again.
Garrett: You're welcome. Looking forward to Wednesday. Try to have a relaxing day today.
I set the phone down and turned my attention back to the mysterious box. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe it was from a customer at the market, someone thanking me for good produce or advice. That happened occasionally, though usually in person rather than through mysterious deliveries.
I grabbed a knife from the drawer and carefully cut through the tape, opening the flaps to peer inside. At first, I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing—tissue paper, something dark underneath. I pushed the paper aside and froze.
A dead plant. Withered, blackened, clearly killed with some kind of chemical or deliberate neglect. And beneath it, a note in the same handwriting from the box.
"Some things aren't meant to grow. Know your place."
My hands started shaking. I dropped the note like it had burned me, backing away from the table. The message was clear—someone wanted me gone, wanted me to back away from... what? The pack? My business? My life here?
Trinity. It had to be Trinity. Who else would send something like this? Who else had made it clear they saw me as a threat?
I stood in my kitchen, my heart pounding, staring at the dead plant on my table like it was a snake coiled to strike. This was a threat. Veiled, but unmistakable. Someone had taken the time to kill a plant, package it up, and send it to my home with a message designed to intimidate me.
And it was working.
I could feel my walls slamming back into place, my instinct to retreat screaming at me to pack up and disappear before things got worse. This was exactly why I didn't let people in, why I kept my distance, why I?—
My phone buzzed again, and I grabbed it without thinking, desperate for any distraction from the panic building in my chest.
Viola: Seriously, call me if you need anything. I mean it.
I stared at the message, at this woman who'd sat at my table yesterday and called herself my friend. Who'd held up a mirror and made me see how isolated I'd become. Who'd offered connection without conditions.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I hit the call button.
She answered on the second ring. "Daphne? Everything okay?"
"I—" My voice cracked, and I had to swallow hard before trying again. "Something happened. I got a delivery."
"What kind of delivery?" Viola's voice immediately shifted from casual to alert.
I looked at the dead plant, at the note lying on my table like an accusation. "A threat, I think. A dead plant and a note telling me to know my place. It's... it's not signed, but I'm pretty sure I know who sent it."
"Trinity." Viola said it like a curse. "That absolute—where are you right now? Are you home?"
"Yeah, I'm in my kitchen. I'm okay, just..." I wrapped my free arm around myself as if trying to keep myself together. "Shaken up."
"I'm coming over." The sound of keys jangling came through the phone. "Give me twenty minutes. Don't touch anything else in that box, okay? And Daphne? Lock your doors."
"You don't have to?—"
"Yes, I do. That's what friends do, remember? We show up." Her voice softened slightly and I could hear her moving around and then the sound of low murmurs from two other voices. "I'll be there soon. Just... sit tight."
She hung up before I could argue, and I was left standing in my kitchen with a dead plant on my table and the realization that I'd just called someone for help. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to. Because I was scared and didn't want to be alone with that fear.
I did lock the doors, then made myself another cup of coffee with shaking hands. The rational part of my brain knew I was probably overreacting—it was a dead plant and a nasty note, not an actual physical threat. But the part that remembered my mother's bitterness, that remembered being left behind again and again, that part was screaming that this was just the beginning.
Trinity had made a scene at the market. Now she was escalating. What would come next?
