Then I saw it.
At the center of the greenhouse, on a raised pedestal, sat a single plant under a special grow light. Its tall, arching stem held a spray of blossoms so blue they seemed almost unreal, glowing faintly in the filtered light.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice said behind me.
I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat.
A woman stood near the far bench, holding a small spray bottle. She looked to be in her mid-forties, with straight dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Her skin was tanned, her clothes practical—faded work pants, a worn chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sturdy boots.
She held herself with the easy familiarity of someone who belonged here.
“Who are you?” I demanded before my brain could catch up to my manners. “What are you doing in my greenhouse?”
She smiled faintly. “Technically, it’s my greenhouse to take care of,” she said. “But it’s your property now, Mrs. Quinn. I’m Teresa Park. Your husband hired me a few years ago to manage the orchid collection and keep an eye on the house. He said that if anything ever happened to him, I was to stay on until you… decided what you wanted to do.”
Teresa.
The name chimed with something Michael had mentioned in passing once. “The orchid woman up near the mountains,” he’d said when I’d complained about a stubborn plant. “She knows more about those things than anyone I’ve ever met. If we ever move up there, we should ask her to give you a tour.”
I’d laughed it off then. We weren’t moving to the mountains.
Apparently, he had been more serious than I realized.
“You’ve been coming here all this time?” I asked, my voice softening slightly.
She nodded. “At least twice a week. Sometimes more, if a plant needed extra attention.” She set down the spray bottle and gestured around. “Your husband was very specific about how he wanted them cared for. He left detailed instructions and then told me to ignore them if they didn’t make sense.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “He was an engineer. I think it bothered him that plants don’t always follow schematics.”
A laugh escaped me, wet and surprised. “That sounds like him.”
“He loved you very much,” she said simply, as if stating a scientific fact. “Everything here… it was all for you.”
My eyes stung again. “He didn’t tell me,” I said, more to myself than to her. “For years. He carried all of this and never…”
Teresa’s expression softened. “Sometimes people hide the things they build for others because they’re afraid,” she said. “Afraid it won’t be enough. Or afraid that if they share it too soon, someone will take it away.”
I thought of the black sedan, of Victor’s red, furious face.
“Yes,” I murmured. “He was afraid of that, too.”
Teresa studied me for a moment, then glanced toward the far corner of the greenhouse, where a door led out toward a shabbier part of the property. “There’s something else you should see,” she said. “He told me to show you if your brothers-in-law ever started… circling.”
“Circling?” I repeated with a wry smile.
“That was my word, not his,” she admitted. “He used… less polite terms.”
Curiosity flared again, stronger than the fear. “Alright,” I said. “Show me.”
We crossed the garden toward a weathered tool shed I hadn’t noticed from the house. It sagged slightly on one side, its wooden boards gray and rough with age. The roof was patched in places with sheets of corrugated metal, and a rusted wheelbarrow leaned against one wall.
“That’s the point,” Teresa said. She moved to the back corner of the shed, where several heavy crates were stacked. Gripping the top one, she heaved it aside with a grunt, revealing a section of concrete floor with a large, square outline.
A trapdoor.
My pulse sped up.
Teresa pulled a key from her pocket—smaller than the ridge gate key, but similar in its sturdy, old-fashioned design—and knelt to fit it into a recessed lock. With a creak that sounded like it hadn’t been used in a while, the hatch lifted, revealing a steep, narrow staircase descending into darkness.
