The house smelled like rosemary and roasted chicken.
It always did on Sundays.
He paused at the doorway, keys still in his hand, listening for a moment before stepping inside. The soft clatter of dishes came from the kitchen, followed by his mother's voice humming tunelessly to herself. Something old. Something she'd been humming since he was a child.
Some things never changed.
"Mom?" he called.
"In here, sweetheart."
He slipped off his shoes and set them neatly by the door, aligning them with the edge of the mat before walking into the kitchen. She stood at the counter, back to him, arranging something on a plate with careful, deliberate movements.
Flowers.
Of course.
A small bundle of wildflowers—daisies, mostly, with a few sprigs of lavender—lay scattered across the counter. She picked through them one by one, discarding the ones that were bent or bruised, keeping only the ones that held their shape.
"Those are new," he said.
She turned, smiling warmly. "From the farmer's market. Aren't they lovely?"
"They are."
And they were. Bright. Alive. Imperfect in a way that made them seem more real.
She handed him a vase. "Can you fill this for me?"
He took it, turning to the sink. The water ran cold over his fingers as he filled the glass, watching the bubbles rise and settle. When he brought it back, she was already gathering the stems into a loose bundle.
"Not like that," he said gently.
She paused. "Hmm?"
"They're too crowded." He stepped closer, reaching for the flowers. "They won't last as long."
She laughed softly. "You always say that."
"Because it's true."
He separated the stems with practiced ease, adjusting their spacing, trimming one slightly with the kitchen scissors. The arrangement shifted under his hands, becoming something more balanced. More intentional.
There.
Better.
His mother watched him, something like pride softening her expression. "You've always had such an eye for beauty," she said. "Even when you were little."
He smiled.
He remembered.
Not the way she meant it—but he remembered.
"There," he said, placing the flowers into the vase. "Now they can breathe."
She touched his arm lightly. "Perfect."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of food and the quiet comfort of routine. It would have looked normal to anyone passing by. Safe. Ordinary.
That was the beauty of it.
They ate at the small dining table by the window.
Roast chicken, potatoes, green beans. His favorite. She'd remembered, of course. She always did.
"How's work?" she asked, pouring him another glass of iced tea.
"Busy."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
She smiled at that, but there was something searching in her eyes. "You're not overworking yourself, are you?"
"No more than usual."
"You need to take care of yourself," she said. "You've always had a tendency to… fixate."
The word lingered.
Fixate.
He took a bite of chicken, chewing slowly. "I'm fine."
"I know you are." She reached across the table, resting her hand over his for a brief moment. "I just worry. You get so focused on things. Even as a boy, you'd get an idea in your head and nothing could pull you away from it."
He looked down at their hands.
She didn't know how right she was.
"I turned out okay," he said.
"Yes," she said softly. "You did."
His sister arrived halfway through lunch, letting herself in with the spare key.
"Sorry I'm late!" she called, dropping her bag by the door. "Traffic was insane."
"In here," their mother called back.
She appeared a moment later, cheeks flushed, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She smiled when she saw him, crossing the room to give him a quick hug.
"Hey, you."
"Hey."
"You look tired."
"Work," he said again.
She rolled her eyes, taking a seat. "Same excuse, different day."
Their mother stood, already moving to the kitchen. "I'll get you a plate."
"Thanks, Mom."
His sister leaned back in her chair, studying him for a moment. "Did you see the news?"
He didn't look up from his plate. "Which part?"
"The killer." Her voice dropped slightly. "They found another body. That's five now."
"I saw."
"It's terrifying," she said. "They're saying he's targeting random women. Just… watching them. Waiting."
He nodded, taking another bite.
"I've been double-checking my locks every night," she continued. "And I don't go anywhere alone anymore. Not after dark."
"Good," he said.
She frowned slightly. "That's it? 'Good'?"
"It's smart."
"I know, but—" She hesitated. "I don't know. I guess I just thought you'd say something more… reassuring."
He met her eyes then, offering a small, easy smile. The one people trusted.
"You're safe," he said. "This kind of thing—it's rare. And they'll catch him."
"You really think so?"
"I do."
She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, seeming to relax. "I hope you're right."
"I am."
After lunch, they moved back into the kitchen.
His mother busied herself with the dishes despite his sister's half-hearted protests, and he stood by the counter, watching the flowers.
They were already beginning to open, petals stretching toward the light from the window.
Fragile things.
His sister joined him, leaning against the counter. "They're pretty."
"They are."
"Mom says you arranged them."
"I helped."
She nudged his shoulder lightly. "You always were good at that. Making things look… right."
He didn't respond.
She glanced at him sideways. "You remember when you used to bring home those little bouquets? From the field behind the house?"
"Yes."
"You'd spend hours on them," she said, smiling faintly. "Lining them up, rearranging them. It was kind of obsessive, honestly."
He looked at her then.
"Was it?"
"Yeah. I mean—not in a bad way. Just… intense." She shrugged. "You always needed things to be a certain way."
Certain.
Still.
Perfect.
He turned back to the flowers. One of the stems had shifted slightly out of place. He adjusted it without thinking.
"There," he said quietly.
His sister watched him for a moment, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then she shook it off, pushing away from the counter.
"I should get going," she said. "I've got an early meeting tomorrow."
Their mother protested, of course, insisting she stay longer, take leftovers, call when she got home. The usual routine.
He walked her to the door.
"Text me when you get home," he said.
She smiled. "You sound like Mom."
"Just do it."
"Okay, okay." She pulled her jacket on, then paused, studying him again. "You sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. Love you."
"Love you too."
He watched her leave, waiting until her car pulled out of the driveway before closing the door.
The house was quiet again.
His mother was in the living room now, watching television, the volume low. He could hear the faint murmur of voices, the occasional laugh track.
He returned to the kitchen.
The flowers sat in the center of the table, catching the afternoon light.
He moved closer, studying them.
They weren't perfect.
Not yet.
One petal was slightly torn. Another stem leaned too far to the left. The spacing was off, just enough to disrupt the balance.
He reached out, adjusting them carefully.
Better.
But still—
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out, glancing at the screen.
A notification. News alert.
FBI Investigating Local Clinic in Connection to Serial Murders
He smiled.
So they'd found it.
Faster than he'd expected.
He set the phone down beside the vase, looking at the flowers again.
"They're getting close," he murmured.
From the living room, his mother's voice drifted in: "Did you say something, sweetheart?"
"No," he called back.
He picked up one of the stems, running his fingers lightly along it.
"They're getting close," he said again, softer this time.
The flower bent slightly under the pressure.
Not broken.
Not yet.
He set it back into place, adjusting the arrangement one final time.
Perfect.
For now.
But it wouldn't last.
They never did.
He washed his hands at the sink, drying them carefully before reaching for his keys.
"Going out?" his mother called.
"Just for a bit."
"Be careful."
"I will."
He stepped outside into the cool Seattle air, closing the door behind him.
Somewhere across the city, they were starting to understand. Starting to see the shape of him, the outline of what he'd been building.
It didn't matter.
Understanding came too late.
It always did.
He walked to his car, already thinking ahead.
About the clinic.
About Maya Reyes.
And about the sister who had run.
He'd been patient before.
He could be patient again.
But not for long.
This time, he would finish what he started.