The Wrong Delivery

The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent when Cassandra finally stepped off the bus.

Her economics test still on her mind, but it was over now. Done. She could breathe.

She adjusted her backpack and pulled out her phone, checking the time. Two-forty.

She had twenty minutes before her shift at Bloom & Petal started. Just enough time to grab a coffee and..

Her phone buzzed.

A text from Patty: Rush delivery. Gold Coast. Address attached. Need you to take it before your shift.

Cassandra groaned. So much for coffee.

She opened the address. 1240 North Michigan Avenue. The Gold Coast. Of course. The rich people always wanted their deliveries at the most inconvenient times.

On my way, she texted back then, tucked her phone into her pocket and headed towards the store.

****

Bloom & Petal was a small storefront wedged between a dry cleaner and a coffee shop. The windows were filled with colorful displayed roses, lilies, hydrangeas all arranged with the kind of care that came from decades of experience.

The bell above the door chimed as Cassandra pushed inside.

"Cass!" Patty appeared from the back room, her gray-streaked hair pulled into a messy bun. "Perfect timing. The Gold Coast delivery is ready."

She gestured to a stunning arrangement on the counter.

"Who's it for?" Cassandra asked, picking up the flowers.

"No name listed. Just the address. Payment cleared already."

Patty shrugged.

"Probably some rich guy trying to impress his mistress."

Cassandra laughed despite herself. "You're terrible."

"I'm honest. There's a difference." Patty handed her a delivery slip. "Get going. Traffic's going to be a nightmare soon."

****

The bus ride to the Gold Coast took forty minutes. Cassandra held the flowers carefully on her lap, trying not to jostle them.

The white orchids were delicate, fussy things that drooped at the slightest provocation.

When the bus finally stopped near Michigan Avenue, she stepped off into the cool air.

The buildings here reached toward the sky, all glass and steel, their windows reflecting the gray clouds.

She checked the address slip again. 1240 North Michigan.

The building in front of her read 1242.

Close. But not close enough.

Cassandra glanced at the next building over. Under construction, covered in scaffolding. The entrance was blocked by temporary fencing, warning signs posted every few feet.

Great. Just great.

She walked around the block, searching for a way in. The construction fencing was solid, but there was a gap near the back alley. She squeezed through, careful not to snag her jacket on the chain-link fence.

The building's service entrance was unlocked.

Cassandra hesitated.

She should probably call the client, confirm the address, wait for someone to meet her downstairs. But the flowers were already starting to wilt, and Patty would kill her if she ruined a two-hundred-dollar arrangement.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The utility corridor was dark and narrow, lit by buzzing fluorescent lights that flickered overhead.

Pipes lined the ceiling, and the air smelled like dust and mildew. Her footsteps echoed off the concrete walls as she walked, the sound too loud in the oppressive silence.

She found the stairwell and climbed to the third floor, her legs burning from the exertion. The emergency exit door groaned when she pushed it open.

The hallway was empty. Silent. The kind of silence that felt wrong, like the building was holding its breath.

Cassandra walked toward Apartment 3A, her sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. The flowers in her hands were starting to droop, the white orchids wilting from the heat.

She raised her hand to knock.

The door was already slightly open.

Cassandra's heart lurched.

A sliver of darkness peeked through the gap. She pushed it gently with her fingertips, peeking inside.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The apartment was a wreck.

Furniture overturned. Glass shattered across the floor. A table lay on its side, its legs splintered. Papers were scattered everywhere, covering the hardwood like snow. Bullet holes peppered the walls, dozens of them, spaced in patterns that suggested a violent struggle.

But there were no bodies.

No blood.

Just chaos. Destruction. Evidence of something terrible that had happened and left.

Cassandra's hand flew to her mouth, stifling the gasp that threatened to escape.

What happened here?

Is this the place?

She should leave. She should turn around and walk away and pretend she'd never seen any of this.

But her feet wouldn't move.

"Who's there?"

The voice came from inside the apartment. Deep. Dangerous. The voice of a man who was used to being obeyed.

Cassandra's blood ran cold.

She stumbled backward, her back slamming against the hallway wall.

The flowers slipped from her fingers, scattering across the floor in a cascade of white petals and green leaves.

She didn't wait to see who the voice belonged to.

She turned and ran.

Her feet slapped against the floor as she tore down the hallway, her lungs burning.

The stairwell door banged open when she crashed through it, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

She took the stairs two at a time, her legs screaming, not stopping, not looking back.

The service entrance. The alley. Then the street.

She burst out into the daylight, gasping for breath, her chest heaving.

People walked past her on the sidewalk, oblivious. Normal people doing normal things. A woman with a stroller. A businessman on his phone.

None of them knew what she'd just seen.

Cassandra looked down at her hands. Empty. She'd dropped the flowers.

Stupid, she thought. I'm so stupid.

She started walking. Fast.

Her heart was still racing, her skin cold and clammy. Every person who passed her made her flinch. Every car that drove by made her jump.

She had to get home. Had to get somewhere safe.

****

The bus ride back to her neighborhood felt like an eternity.

Cassandra sat in the back, huddled against the window, her knees pulled up to her chest.

Her legs bounced with nervous energy, the motion uncontrollable. She replayed the scene over and over in her head.

The overturned furniture. The shattered glass. The bullet holes.

The voice.

Who's there?

She couldn't shake it. Couldn't escape it.

You're fine, she told herself. You got out. No one saw you. You're fine.

She repeated it like a mantra, over and over, until the words lost all meaning. Her reflection stared back at her from the dark window pale, wide-eyed, haunted.

When the bus finally stopped near her apartment, she practically ran home.

****

Her grandmother was in the kitchen when Cassandra burst through the door.

"Cassandra!" Her grandma looked up from the stove, her wrinkled face breaking into a warm smile. "You're early. How was the test?"

"Fine." Cassandra forced a smile, her voice strained and breathless. "It was fine."

Her grandma narrowed, her sharp gaze scanning her granddaughter's face. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I think I did, Cassandra wanted to say. I think I saw death.

"I'm just tired." She dropped her backpack by the door, her fingers still trembling. "Long day. I'm going to lie down for a bit."

"Did you eat?"

"I'll eat later."

She started toward her room, but her grandmother's voice stopped her.

"Cassandra."

She turned. Her grandma was watching her with those sharp, knowing eyes. The same eyes that had seen Cassandra through every crisis of her life.

"Everything okay?" Evelyn asked softly. "You can tell me."

Cassandra opened her mouth to lie. To say she was fine. To pretend everything was normal.

But the words wouldn't come.

“Everything is fine, grandma don't worry. I'm just tired."

She lied anyways and she liked it because she didn't want her grandma to worry about it.