Chapter 2

2

During our second year together, we were curled up on the couch watching a crime show. The characters in the show used flower colors as secret codes to pass messages.

Liam was fascinated. He turned to me and said, "Let's make one too. Red roses mean danger, white means safe, and yellow means be careful."

I thought he was being overly dramatic at the time, but I played along and nodded anyway.

That agreement was a secret only Liam and I shared.

If the man in my house wasn't Liam, why did he bring red roses?

Unless...

This slip-up was left for me on purpose.

The sound of running water came from the bathroom, mixing with the rapid thudding of my heart.

I quietly pushed open the bedroom door.

Liam’s suitcase was open on the floor. His clothes were folded neatly.

He always traveled like this—every shirt rolled into the exact same shape, lined up perfectly in the suitcase.

I knelt down, my fingers shaking as I rummaged through the side pockets.

His passport, a charger, a half-used pack of tissues.

Nothing.

Just as I was about to stand up, my eyes caught a piece of fabric peeking through the closet door.

I pulled the closet door open. It was the grey jacket Liam wore before he left.

He had owned this jacket for years. The cuffs were starting to fray, and though I offered to buy him a new one, he insisted this was his most comfortable piece.

I reached my hand into the pocket.

My fingertips brushed against something soft and slightly damp, like it had been sitting there for days.

I pulled it out. It was a red rose petal.

The petal was slightly withered, its edges curling and turning a dark, bruised color, as if it had been soaked in something.

Written on it in black ink were two words:

*RUN.*

The handwriting was messy and rushed. The last stroke of the 'N' dragged out long, as if he had been interrupted mid-write.

I recognized this handwriting.

It was Liam's.

His handwriting was just like him—seemingly neat and orderly, but if you looked closely, the final stroke of every word always flicked upward.

The water in the bathroom stopped.

I quickly shoved the petal back into the jacket pocket, shut the closet door, pushed the suitcase back to its exact spot, and retreated to the living room.

Just as I sat down on the couch, he walked out, drying his hair with a towel.

He had changed into loungewear—a grey T-shirt and dark blue shorts.

They were all Liam's clothes, and they fit him perfectly.

"Claire, can you check if I left my charger brick in the suitcase? I can't find it," his voice called out from the bedroom, carrying the lazy warmth of someone who had just showered.

I called back an answer and stood up to walk over.

His back was turned to me as he rummaged through the suitcase, exposing the skin of his neck.

The overhead light was bright—bright enough for me to see every detail of his skin.

I stared at his neck, and my heart seized.

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