Ami came back to her townhouse only to drop the keys in shock at the vase and roses on her kitchen island. A few scenes from horror movies flashed in the periphery of her vision, but a moment’s though dispelled them. The small notice from the landlord tucked neatly beneath the vase quickly made it clear that silly romantic old Bethanie had been persuaded to deposit the flowers in her tenant’s kitchen.

There was a card on a plastic stalk jutting out among the fiery red-orange roses; Ami plucked it out.

Forgive me. K.

Two words and one letter struck Ami like a blow. After all he’d done, after all she’d caught him doing, he wanted forgiveness? He thought he could buy it with a dozen roses, a cheap vase, and a romantic spinster confederate?

No.

Ami seized the roses, ignoring the sharp thorns digging at her palm, and marched up to the second floor. She wrenched open the bedroom window and hurled the flowers onto the yard below. A moment later, the vase went into the clear glass recycling bin with a crash.

“Hmph,” Ami murmured, staring at the small spots of blood blossoming on her hands. “Even when he’s not here, he can still hurt me.”

In the cul-de-sac below, a neighbor was walking his dog and came across the fallen roses. “What a waste,” he said. “What kind of person is so rich and shallow that they can afford to dump perfectly good roses on the lawn?”