I've been devouring this book all morning. Liane Moriarty never disappoints. I know they made it into a series with Nicole Kidman, but I refuse to watch it until I finish the book. I need to imagine the characters on my own terms first, conjure the spa, the strangers, the creeping dread.
Though I'll admit—I keep picturing Nicole as Masha anyway. Can't help it.
The doorbell shatters the quiet.
I jolt, nearly dropping the book. My pulse kicks up for no good reason. Probably a package for Reeves. Maybe something for Kendra.
I don’t get up. I’m scared shitless. I immediately think of Daniel. I’m frozen to my chair for a long beat, my mind whirling.
I suck in a long, deep breath.
This is ridiculous.
I reluctantly get up and head very slowly to the bay window, the one that looks out toward the front entrance. I peek tentatively through the blinds. I see a dark sedan leave, not Daniel’s car. There’s no evidence of anyone on the property.
I then make my way to the front door, slippered feet trudging along the hardwood floor. I carefully open the door and finally venture a peek outside.
There’s no one there.
Just a bouquet on the stoop.
Black roses.
My stomach drops. I feel sick.
I stare at them as if they might suddenly lunge at me.
The bouquet is stunning in the worst possible way.
I take it inside.
Twelve stems, wrapped in glossy black paper and tied with a silk black ribbon. The roses themselves are perfect—too perfect—their petals thick and velvety, soft purple edges, unnaturally dark. Not wilted or spray-painted. These are real black roses, the kind that cost a fortune, cultivated in some specialized greenhouse by people who know exactly what they're doing.
Each bloom is in full flower, open and shameless. Droplets of water cling to the petals like tiny diamonds, catching the weak November sunlight. Someone misted them recently. Someone handled them with care.
There's a small card tucked into the stems. Cream-colored, elegant. My fingers hover over it.
I don't want to touch it.
But I do.
The handwriting is immaculate—flowing, deliberate cursive that belongs in a calligraphy textbook.
"Every rose has its thorn. And thorns draw blood. I haven't forgotten you, Liza. I'll never forget you. I'll never forgive you either. "
No signature.
I drop the card like it's on fire.
My hands shake as I scan the street. Nothing. Just parked cars and empty sidewalks. A neighbor across the way sits on his porch, oblivious.
Daniel.
It has to be.
The letter was creepy enough—that rambling manifesto about karma and punishment. But this? This seems even more calculated. Specific. He knows Reeves is at work. He knows I'm alone.
He wants to scare me—that much is obvious. He wants me to feel hunted, watched, vulnerable. He wants me to know that despite everything, despite the distance I've put between us, he's still out there. Still thinking about me. Still obsessed.
