Page 15 of The Hunter

“I love you, too,” I forced out, knowing he expected this response. The last thing I wanted was to give him a reason to delay or cancel his trip.

He treated me to one last smile that reminded me of the man he once was. Then he retreated, his footsteps echoing in the space.

Only when I heard the front door click behind him did I let myself breathe.

Even if it was only for a little while.

Chapter Seven

Ariana

The scent of lavender and antiseptic always hit me first. It clung to the polished floors and filtered air of Serenity Grove like a false promise. Something soothing to hide the slow unraveling happening behind every door.

I signed in at the front desk, gave the receptionist a brittle smile, and walked the familiar path toward the back garden.

Mama always loved the garden, even in January.Especiallyin January.

She used to say that winter in the tropics was the best time to breathe. The air didn’t cling so tightly. The humidity eased. And the flowers didn’t have to fight so hard to bloom against the unrelenting sun and high temperatures.

It made me wonder when my life would bloom again.

Or was I stuck in an eternal summer that only looked like paradise on the outside?

As I stepped onto the flagstone path, sunlight filtered through swaying palms and bougainvillea vines clinging to their trellises, casting bright splashes of fuchsia and coral against the pale stucco walls. The air was thick with the scent of hibiscus and the distant trace of sea salt carried on a soft breeze.

Mama was right where I expected her to be — sitting near the fountain, wrapped in a light blanket the color of faded sunflowers. Her eyes were closed, face tipped to the warm morning sun like she needed it to breathe. Her once-golden hair was more white now, neatly twisted at the nape of her neck. Her hands rested on her lap, fingers twitching like they were remembering the feel of soil, clippers, and rose thorns.

“Hey, Mama,” I said softly, careful not to startle her.

Her eyes opened and locked on mine. For one precious moment, they were the eyes I recalled from my childhood. Clear, bright, and full of love.

“Ari?” she replied, reaching for me, as if unsure I was real. When her hands landed on my face, she blew out a relieved breath. “My girl.”

I sat beside her on the bench and took her hands in mine. Her skin was cool. Fragile, like paper kept too long in the sun.

“I missed you.”

“You came yesterday,” she murmured, frowning. “Didn’t you?”

“No, Mama. It’s been a few days.”

More like weeks.

“Are you sure? I—” Her lips pressed together, and I saw the panic rising.

“You must be happy to be outside,” I interjected, gently redirecting her.

She relaxed a little and nodded. “It’s only a matter of time until spring returns and I can work in my garden again. I don’t even want to think about how much pruning those rose bushes are going to need.”

I didn’t tell her she didn’t have a garden anymore. That my childhood home in New Jersey had been bulldozed, replaced by a big box store and a parking lot. I didn’t tell her about the acres upon acres of concrete. I didn’t tell her anything thatmight shatter the peace she found in remembering what used to be when things were simpler. Before a handsome man in an expensive suit walked into our family’s struggling flower shop.

“You’ll help me, of course. Won’t you?”

I gritted a smile. “Of course, Mama.”

She brushed my cheek with trembling fingers. “I’ve always loved our time in the garden. Do you remember the tomatoes? How you used to eat them straight off the vine?”

I nodded. “I remember. The spaghetti sauce you made with them was always the best.”