# Chapter 1: Blossoms in Red Alister adjusted his tie in the mirror of the bar's restroom. His fingers moved with practiced precision, tuning the silk knot to perfection. He never understood why other men struggled with this simple task. Everything about his appearance needed to be immaculate. The stall behind him flushed, and he quickly shifted to washing his hands, avoiding eye contact with the burly man who emerged. "Evening," the man mumbled. Alister nodded politely but said nothing. He had more important matters to attend to. The Crimson Rose was busier than usual for a Thursday night, which provided both opportunity and inconvenience. More people meant more witnesses, but also more chaos to disappear into. He dried his hands methodically with a paper towel, making sure to wipe between each finger. His reflection showed a man in his early thirties with neat brown hair, sharp blue eyes, and the kind of forgettable handsomeness that served him well. People remembered him as "that nice gentleman" rather than by any distinguishing features. Returning to the bar, he ordered another scotch. The bartender—a thin woman with tattoos crawling up her forearms—smiled at him as she poured. "You look like you're waiting for someone," she said. "Just enjoying the atmosphere," Alister replied, his voice smooth as the liquor in his glass. "Though company would be welcome." He sipped his drink and surveyed the room. Thursday crowds were different—fewer college students, more professionals unwinding before the weekend. His gaze settled on a woman sitting alone at the end of the bar. She was arranging small flowers she'd pulled from her purse onto a napkin, creating a miniature display. Interesting. He finished his drink and moved toward her, careful to keep his pace casual. Standing a respectable distance away, he gestured to the empty stool beside her. "May I?" She glanced up, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "Sure." "I couldn't help noticing your little art project," he said, nodding toward the napkin. "Are you a florist?" Her face brightened immediately. "I own a small shop a few blocks from here. Little Corner Blooms, on 7th Street." "I'm Alister," he said, extending his hand. "Dahlia," she replied, shaking it. "Like the flower. That's lovely." She smiled. "My parents were gardeners. I guess it was destiny." Alister signaled for another drink. "What brings a florist to arrange flowers at a bar on a Thursday night?" "Habit, I guess." She shrugged. "I always have cuttings in my bag. Helps me think about new arrangements." "May I see?" He leaned closer, genuinely curious despite himself. Dahlia nodded and pushed the napkin toward him. She'd arranged small purple blooms around white ones in a spiral pattern. "Asters and baby's breath," she explained. "Simple, but they complement each other." "They're beautiful," Alister said, and meant it. There was something fascinating about the delicate petals arranged with such care. "Do you have a favorite?" Her eyes lit up at the question. "Ranunculus. Not many people know them, but they're these incredible layered blooms that look almost like paper. They come in these amazing colors—deep reds, corals, whites." "I don't think I've ever seen one," Alister admitted. "You should come by the shop sometime. I always have them in stock." "I'd like that." He took a sip of his fresh drink. "I've always appreciated flowers, but never knew much about them. The science behind them, the meanings." This was a lie. Alister couldn't care less about flowers, but he'd learned long ago that showing interest in someone's passion was the quickest way to gain trust. "There's so much to know," Dahlia said, excited now. "Every flower has a history, a meaning. Did you know that in Victorian times, people used bouquets to send secret messages?" "I didn't," Alister replied, leaning in as if captivated. "Tell me more." For the next hour, he listened as Dahlia explained the language of flowers, the proper way to cut stems, how different blooms required different care. He asked questions at the right moments, smiled when appropriate, and gradually moved closer. By their third round of drinks, their shoulders were touching, and Dahlia was showing him pictures of rare orchids on her phone. "Sorry, I'm talking too much," she said suddenly, pulling back slightly. "I get carried away." "Not at all," Alister reassured her. "It's refreshing to meet someone so passionate about their work." "What about you? What do you do?" "Investment banking," he replied smoothly. "Nothing nearly as interesting as creating beauty every day." The lie rolled off his tongue easily. He'd been a lot of things to a lot of people. Tonight, he was a charming finance professional who appreciated the finer things in life. "Banking," she repeated. "That explains the suit. Though most bankers I meet don't care about flowers." "I'm not most bankers," he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I believe in finding beauty in unexpected places." Dahlia held his gaze a moment longer than necessary. "I should probably get going soon. Early deliveries tomorrow." "Let me walk you home," Alister offered. "It's getting late." She hesitated, then nodded. "That would be nice, actually." They finished their drinks, and Alister paid the tab despite her protests. Outside, the night air was cool, carrying the first hints of autumn. Dahlia wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself. "I'm just a few blocks this way," she said, pointing east. They walked side by side, their conversation flowing easily now. Alister noticed how she paused occasionally to look at planters outside restaurants or small patches of urban landscaping, commenting on their health or arrangement. "Do you live far from here?" she asked. "About twenty minutes by car," he said. Another lie. His apartment was actually just five blocks in the opposite direction. "I like this neighborhood, though. It has character." "That's why I opened my shop here," Dahlia said. "It's not the fanciest area, but people here appreciate small businesses." "And how long have you had your shop?" "Almost three years now. It was a struggle at first, but I'm finally turning a profit." She stopped in front of a small apartment building. "This is me." Alister looked up at the unremarkable building. "Thank you for the company tonight, Dahlia. And the education." She smiled, tucking her hair back again in what he now recognized as a nervous habit. "Would you like to come up for coffee? I have some pressed flower artwork I could show you." "I'd like that very much," Alister replied, his pulse quickening slightly. The apartment was on the third floor, a small one-bedroom with plants covering every available surface. Hanging pots, terrariums, vases filled with fresh cuttings—it was like walking into a greenhouse. "Sorry about the jungle," she said, leading him inside. "Hazard of the profession." "It's wonderful," Alister said, glancing around to take stock of the layout. Single entrance. Fire escape outside the window. Neighbor's television audible through the wall. "Do you really take care of all these?" "They're like my children," Dahlia laughed, moving to the kitchen. "Make yourself comfortable. How do you take your coffee?" "Black is fine," he called, wandering to a bookshelf filled with volumes on botany and floral design. Among them was a worn leather notebook. He pulled it out and flipped through pages of pressed flowers, each labeled with scientific names and notes. "That's my field journal," Dahlia said, returning with two mugs. "From college. I studied horticulture before opening the shop." "These are beautiful," Alister said, turning the pages carefully. "You've preserved them perfectly." "I've always been fascinated by preservation," she said, sitting beside him on the small sofa. "Taking something beautiful and keeping it that way forever." Alister looked at her, seeing something kindred in her eyes that he hadn't noticed at the bar. "I understand that impulse." They sipped their coffee, the conversation shifting to personal histories. Alister crafted his backstory with practiced ease—an only child from the suburbs, business degree from State, divorced parents. Enough truth mixed with fiction to be believable. Dahlia spoke of growing up in rural Pennsylvania, her parents' garden center, moving to the city for college and staying. As she talked, she moved closer, until their knees touched. "I'm glad you noticed my little arrangement tonight," she said, her voice softer now. "I'm glad you invited me up," he replied, setting down his mug and turning toward her. When they kissed, Alister felt the familiar detachment wash over him. It was like watching himself from a distance, going through the motions that people expected. Her lips were soft, her hands tentative on his shoulders. He matched her pace, careful not to seem too eager or too disinterested. "Bedroom?" she whispered against his mouth. He nodded, following as she led him through the apartment to a small room dominated by a queen-sized bed. More plants lined the windowsill, their silhouettes casting strange shadows in the dim light from the street. Dahlia reached for the lamp on the nightstand, but Alister caught her wrist. "Leave it off," he said. "The light from outside is nice." She smiled and began unbuttoning her blouse. Alister removed his jacket and carefully draped it over a chair in the corner. His tie followed, neatly folded. When he turned back, Dahlia was sitting on the edge of the bed in her underwear, watching him. "You're very methodical," she observed. "I like things a certain way," he replied, unbuttoning his shirt. "Come here," she said, patting the spot beside her. Alister sat down, his mind already elsewhere. While Dahlia's hands moved across his chest, he was calculating distances, timing, variables. His bag was in the living room, tucked beside the sofa where he'd placed it earlier. "I'll be right back," he murmured, kissing her forehead before standing. "Just need to get something from my bag." In the living room, he unzipped the leather messenger bag and removed the axe. It wasn't particularly large—just a camping hatchet, really—but it was sharp and well-balanced. He'd chosen it specifically for this occasion, appreciating its versatility and relatively quiet operation. When he returned to the bedroom, Dahlia was lying on her back, eyes closed. She must have heard his footsteps because she smiled without opening her eyes. "Took you long enough," she said. "Had to find what I was looking for." Alister moved to the bedside, axe held behind his back. "Dahlia, do you know why I was really interested in your flowers?" She opened her eyes, confusion crossing her features as she noticed his expression. "What do you—" The first blow caught her in the chest, splitting her sternum with a sound like breaking branches. Her scream was cut short as blood filled her lungs. The second blow silenced her completely. Alister worked quickly, methodically. Four more strikes to ensure death. Blood sprayed across the white sheets, the wall, his shirt. It was unfortunate about the shirt—it was one of his favorites—but these things couldn't be helped. When he was certain she was dead, he stepped back to survey his work. Dahlia's body lay splayed across the bed, her chest a ruined cavity, her eyes still open in shock. The scene was chaotic, primal, lacking the elegance he preferred. But he knew how to fix that. Returning to the living room, he selected several flowers from various vases. A handful of white lilies, some deep red roses, purple irises. He brought them back to the bedroom and began arranging them around and on Dahlia's body. Some he placed in her hair, others he positioned along the outline of her form on the bloodstained sheets. "The language of flowers," he murmured, recalling her earlier enthusiasm. "What do these say about you, I wonder?" The final arrangement pleased him. The contrast of the vibrant blooms against the crimson background created a macabre beauty that even Dahlia might have appreciated. It was almost poetic—the florist becoming part of her final bouquet. Alister took a moment to admire his work, then gathered his belongings. He wiped down surfaces he'd touched, careful to leave no fingerprints. The axe went back into his bag, wrapped in a plastic shopping bag he'd brought for this purpose. At the door, he took one last look at the apartment. Tomorrow, someone would find her. The police would come. They would take photographs, collect evidence, interview neighbors. And eventually, they would add this case to the growing file of unsolved murders attributed to the man the papers had started calling "The Gentleman." He liked that name. It suited him. The night air felt refreshing after the coppery closeness of the apartment. Alister walked briskly, keeping to shadows, avoiding the gaze of traffic cameras. His car was parked several blocks away, in a lot with broken surveillance equipment. Another detail carefully planned. By the time he reached his own apartment, it was nearly three in the morning. He disposed of his clothes in a garbage bag, placing it inside a larger bag filled with kitchen waste. The axe he cleaned meticulously before returning it to its hidden compartment in his closet. In the shower, he watched Dahlia's blood spiral down the drain, feeling the familiar sense of calm that always followed. The hot water soothed his muscles, washing away the night's exertions. Tomorrow would be a normal day. He would go to his actual job at the publishing house, where he worked as a copyeditor. He would chat with colleagues, review manuscripts, eat lunch at his desk. And he would wait for news of his latest masterpiece. Morning came too quickly. Alister dressed with his usual care—charcoal suit, light blue shirt, burgundy tie. Breakfast was simple: black coffee, toast with jam, a soft-boiled egg. He read the news on his tablet, but there was nothing yet about a body found in an apartment full of plants. These things took time. Someone would need to miss Dahlia first. A delivery not made, perhaps. Or a friend concerned about unanswered texts. He imagined the discovery happening later today, with the first reports appearing in tomorrow's news cycle. The publishing house was busy when he arrived. A major author had submitted a long-awaited manuscript, and the entire editorial department was buzzing with excitement. Alister nodded politely to colleagues as he made his way to his desk. "Morning, Mr. Punctual," called a voice from the break room. "Just in time to save us from the coffee situation." Alister smiled as Marcus emerged, clutching a steaming mug. Marcus Cooper was the closest thing Alister had to a friend—a boisterous, perpetually disheveled editorial assistant whose father happened to be Captain Thomas Cooper of the city's homicide division. "What's wrong with the coffee?" Alister asked, hanging his coat on the rack beside his desk. "Everything. Jen made it, and you know she thinks coffee should be strong enough to dissolve spoons." Marcus perched on the edge of Alister's desk. "Anyway, you missed all the excitement last night." Alister kept his expression neutral, though his heart rate increased slightly. "What excitement?" "Dad got called out around midnight. Some disturbance in the Westridge district. Neighbors reported screaming, possible break-in." "Anything serious?" Alister asked, arranging his pens in a perfect row. Marcus shrugged. "False alarm, sounds like. By the time they got there, nothing. Just some empty beer bottles in the alley and a cat that wouldn't shut up." Alister's hand froze momentarily. "Nothing at all?" "Nope. Dad was pissed about being dragged out for nothing. Said it was probably just some drunk college kids." Marcus took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. "Speaking of which, how was your night? Exciting as ever?" "Quiet," Alister replied, his mind racing. "Just stayed in and read." "Of course you did. Man, you need to get out more." Marcus stood and stretched. "Anyway, better get back to it. Jenkins wants these edits by noon." Alister nodded distractedly as Marcus wandered back to his own desk. Something wasn't right. The police had responded to a call—presumably about Dahlia's apartment—but found nothing? That was impossible. He'd left her body there, surrounded by flowers, in a room splattered with blood. There was no way the police could have missed that. Unless someone had cleaned up after him. But who? And why? Alister opened his computer and tried to focus on the manuscript before him, but the words blurred on the screen. His careful plans, his meticulous execution—all rendered meaningless by this unexpected development. He needed more information. At lunch, he casually approached Marcus again. "Your father must have interesting stories from work." Marcus looked up from his sandwich. "You have no idea. The stuff he can't put in the official reports would make your hair curl." "Like that false alarm last night?" "Oh, that was nothing," Marcus said, waving dismissively. "Just one of those weird city things. Neighbor swore they heard a woman screaming, furniture breaking, the works. Three units responded, found the apartment completely empty. Not even signs of a struggle." Alister's stomach tightened. "Empty? As in, no one lived there?" "No, someone definitely lived there. Plants everywhere, according to Dad. But no people, no blood, no evidence of any crime." Marcus leaned forward. "Get this, though—the woman who supposedly lives there showed up for work this morning like nothing happened. Runs some flower shop downtown." The room seemed to tilt slightly. Alister gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. "You okay, man? You look like you've seen a ghost," Marcus said, frowning. "Fine," Alister managed. "Just remembered a deadline I missed." "Well, don't let Jenkins hear about it. He's on the warpath today." Alister nodded and excused himself, walking quickly to the restroom. Once inside a stall, he leaned against the wall, trying to make sense of what he'd just heard. Dahlia was alive? That was categorically impossible. He'd felt her last breath against his skin. He'd watched her blood pool beneath her body. There was no way—no conceivable way—she could be alive and working at her shop today. Yet according to Marcus, that's exactly what had happened. The implications were staggering. Either he was losing his mind, or something far more disturbing was occurring. Neither option was acceptable. He splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The same controlled expression looked back at him, betraying none of the turmoil beneath. He would figure this out. He always did. Back at his desk, Alister forced himself to complete his work for the day, though his thoughts kept returning to Dahlia and her impossible resurrection. By the time five o'clock arrived, he had formulated a plan. Tomorrow, he would visit Little Corner Blooms on 7th Street. He would see for himself whether Dahlia was truly alive—and if she was, whether she recognized the man who had killed her just hours before. For now, though, all he could do was wait, confusion and a creeping sense of dread his only companions.