Page 150 of What We Become

“And the composition. Twelve sunflowers, three sprigs of eucalyptus, all cut to sit at exactly the right height in this particular vase. Unless Stephen has recently developed an interest in floral design, somebody bought these from a shop.”

“Can you trace them?” Sage asks.

“Sunflowers don’t have serial numbers, kitten.”

“Cars weren’t born with serial numbers either. Men added them because it made finding things easier—maybe they came in packaging that has a barcode?”

“I’ll go check the trash cans,” Micah says, heading for the front door.

I turn and stare at Sage.

“What?” she asks.

“That was strangely hot.”

“Milo.”

“Right. Murder flowers.”

I photograph the arrangement from several angles, then start searching florists within twenty miles. Eleven businesses advertise sunflower arrangements. Three belong to chains with centralized stock and transaction systems. The rest are independent shops, which means phone calls, personal visits, or committing digital crimes against small-business owners who probably spend their evenings making inspirational posts about supporting the community.

I start with the chains.

While the searches run, I pull the security system’s network traffic. The cameras may not show anyone, but every device leaves something behind when it communicates—a request, an acknowledgment, a timestamp, or the digital equivalent of breathing too loudly while hiding in a closet.

Most of it is routine.

Then I find a packet hitting the central controller at 12:57 p.m.

It doesn’t access anything. It barely touches the perimeter before disappearing, but the routing pattern hooks into the back of my brain and pulls.

Three jumps. Virginia. Amsterdam. Then a dead node in São Paulo.

Fuck.

I open the capture I saved twelve days ago and place the two side by side.

Same bounce pattern. Same packet size. Same careful knock against the door without attempting to walk through it.

Holden moves closer. “Is that the weird ping you found at Gloria’s?”

“Yeah.”

“What weird ping?” Sage asks.

Nobody says anything.

She looks at Holden first, then at me. “What fucking ping?”

“Twelve days ago, something tested my firewall,” I say. “There wasn’t a payload or follow-up, so it could’ve been an automated crawler, except the routing looked a little too deliberate.”

“You said it was probably nothing,” Holden says.

“I said it might be nothing.”

“You promised you’d tell me if it turned into something.”

“It just did. And I’m immediately telling you.”