Chapter 2 - The Ghost from the Past
The sun dipped below the Charleston skyline, casting long, bruised shadows of purple and orange across the brick sidewalks of Rosemary Lane. By the time I locked the front door, flipped the wooden sign to Closed, and trudged up the narrow staircase to the small apartment above the shop where my aunt Margaret and I lived, my mind was an absolute hurricane.
Margaret was sitting in her usual rocking chair by the bay window, a half-knitted woolen blanket resting across her lap and a cup of chamomile tea steaming on the side table. At sixty-five, she had lines of kindness carved deep around her eyes, but tonight, those eyes looked clouded with a heavy, unspoken worry.
“You’re late, sweetheart,” Margaret said gently as I tossed my keys onto the entryway bowl and kicked off my worn canvas sneakers.
“Delivery ran late, and inventory took longer than expected,” I lied smoothly, hanging my apron on the wall hook. I couldn't tell her about Vincent Callaway. Margaret had spent my entire life sheltering me from the darker, more violent underbelly of Charleston—the world that had taken my parents in a suspicious highway collision when I was nine years old. She knew the Callaway name carried whispers of old money, dock strikes, and untouchable power, and the last thing she needed was to worry that the city’s most dangerous man had suddenly taken a personal interest in her niece.
Margaret watched me intently over the rim of her teacup, her gaze too knowing for comfort. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”
“What look?”
“The look you get when you’re trying to solve a puzzle that doesn't have an answer in the rulebook.” She smiled faintly. “Who was it today, Emily? Another wealthy socialite complaining that her hydrangeas didn't match the curtains?”
“No,” I murmured, sinking into the plush armchair opposite her and pulling my knees up to my chest. “It wasn't a socialite.”
Before Margaret could press further, a sudden, sharp rap echoed against the wooden front door downstairs.
We both froze.
“At this hour?” Margaret whispered, frowning. “The shop is closed.”
“I’ll check it out,” I said, standing up quickly and hurrying down the interior staircase before my aunt could protest.
When I reached the ground floor, I peered through the glass window set into the heavy front door. Standing alone on the deserted sidewalk beneath the flickering green-and-white awning was not Vincent, but a young man I recognized instantly—Leo, one of Vincent’s quiet, polite drivers who had occasionally dropped off paperwork at the shop for corporate events.
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open a few inches, keeping the security chain securely fastened.
“Leo? Is everything okay?”
The young man looked pale, his eyes darting anxiously up and down the empty street. He held up a thick, weathered Manila folder tied with a faded red ribbon.
“Miss Parker,” Leo said, his voice rushed and breathless. “Mr. Callaway asked me to deliver this to you personally. He said... he said if anything happened to him tonight, you were the only person outside his inner circle who would understand where to look.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Happen to him? Leo, what are you talking about? Where is Vincent?”
“There was an ambush at the north pier terminal an hour ago,” Leo explained frantically, his hands trembling slightly. “A rival faction—men backed by the federal indictment squad and local politicians we thought were clean—hit our shipment. Mr. Callaway stayed behind to cover the extraction. He’s fine, he’s handling it, but before he went into the terminal, he handed me this file and gave me strict instructions: ‘If I don't walk out of that warehouse by midnight, take this straight to Emily Parker. She’ll know what it means.’”
I stared at the weathered folder through the crack in the door, my mind reeling. “Me? Why would I know what it means? I run a flower shop!”
“Just take it, Miss Parker,” Leo pleaded, pressing the folder through the narrow opening before I could pull back. “Please. Keep it safe. The secrets inside that envelope are the only reason Mr. Callaway’s father was killed twelve years ago... and they’re the reason someone is trying to kill him tonight.”
May you like
Before I could ask another question, a sleek black car screeched around the corner with its headlights off, and Leo bolted down the sidewalk, disappearing into the shadows.
I stood frozen on the threshold, holding a heavy, dangerous secret in my trembling hands, while the clock on the wall ticked relentlessly toward midnight.
