CHAPTER 4: THE FATHER'S LIES**
The Greene Estate didn't so much appear as *materialize* from the fog—a sprawling gothic monstrosity of gray stone and too many windows, its peaked roofs clawing at the low-hanging clouds. The driveway stretched like a black tongue, flanked by regimented rows of rose bushes so vibrantly red they looked arterial in the fading light.
Carter rolled down the car window, letting the sickly-sweet perfume of a thousand blooms flood the sedan. The scent clung to the back of his throat, thick as syrup.
Julia gagged audibly. "Christ. Smells like a funeral home's idea of an air freshener."
"Careful, Moreno," Carter drawled, steering with one hand. "That's the smell of old money. Probably what heaven smells like to people like you."
"People like me?" Julia's eyebrow arched. "You mean those of us who don't consider gas station hot dogs a food group?"
The banter died as they reached the circular drive. The house loomed closer, its leaded windows reflecting the approaching storm clouds. Carter killed the engine, and in the sudden silence, the absence of birdsong became conspicuous.
The front door swung open before they could knock.
James Greene stood framed in the doorway like a man who'd stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalog—silver hair perfectly styled, navy suit tailored within an inch of its life. Only the faint tremor in his left hand as he adjusted his platinum cufflinks betrayed the cracks in the facade.
"Detectives," he said, his voice smooth and aged like the whiskey he probably sipped while firing people. "I've been expecting you."
The foyer could have doubled as a museum exhibit titled *How The 1% Live*. Marble floors gleamed under a chandelier that looked suspiciously like actual crystal. Oil portraits of stern-faced ancestors glared down from paneled walls. The air smelled of lemon polish and something darker underneath—maybe fear. Maybe guilt. Maybe just really expensive scotch.
Julia wasted no time. "Mr. Greene, when was the last time you saw your daughter?"
James moved to a sideboard where a crystal decanter waited like an old friend. Ice cubes clinked like bones as he poured three fingers of amber liquid. "Three days ago. We had...a disagreement."
Carter wandered over to a display case filled with gleaming awards. "Best Hybrid Rose, 2018. Most Fragrant Bloom, 2020." He turned, locking eyes with Greene. "Impressive. What exactly do you hybridize besides your daughter's freedom?"
The glass in Greene's hand cracked. A single drop of liquor hit the Persian rug, spreading like a bloodstain.
"You don't know anything about my relationship with Charlotte."
Julia stepped between them, her voice calm but edged with steel. "Then enlighten us. Who was she afraid of?"
Greene's jaw worked. "She was a dramatic girl. Always imagining things."
"Like what?" Carter pressed.
"Conspiracies!" Greene threw up his hands, the ice in his glass rattling. "She became obsessed with our greenhouses, convinced we were—" He cut himself off sharply.
Carter's smile was razor thin. "What, Mr. Greene? What exactly do you grow besides flowers?"
A door slammed upstairs.
All three turned as Eleanor Greene descended the grand staircase, her movements unnaturally precise, like a wind-up doll nearing the end of its spring. Her black dress swallowed what little color remained in her face. In her hands she clutched a small velvet box, her fingers white-knuckled around it.
"You should show them," she whispered, her voice raw.
Greene looked like he might protest, but his wife was already opening the box. Inside, preserved under glass, lay a single white rose petal—so pristine it might have been cut from porcelain. Beneath it, a slip of paper with Charlotte's looping handwriting:
*If you're reading this, I was right about everything.*
The silence that followed was broken only by the distant rumble of thunder.
Julia was the first to speak. "Mrs. Greene, what was your daughter right about?"
Eleanor's lips parted, but James cut in. "She was unwell. The notes, the paranoia—we were arranging for her to see a specialist when..." His voice broke in a way that might have been convincing if not for the way his eyes kept darting to the hallway.
Carter followed his gaze to a closed door. "What's through there?"
"My study," Greene said too quickly.
Julia was already moving. "We'll need to see it."
Greene stepped in her path. "I don't think—"
"Actually," Carter said, pulling out his badge, "we weren't asking."
The study smelled of leather and lies. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves framed a massive mahogany desk. But it was the framed photo on the wall that caught Carter's attention—a younger James Greene standing beside rows of greenhouse tables, holding a rose with petals so white they glowed.
Julia ran a finger along the desk's edge. "Mr. Greene, where exactly are these greenhouses?"
"On our research campus," he said stiffly. "Closed to the public."
Carter opened a desk drawer. Inside lay a stack of shipping manifests—dozens of international shipments labeled *Rose Water Extract*. One in particular stood out: a delivery to a pharmaceutical company in Switzerland.
"Funny," Carter mused. "Didn't realize roses needed to be prescribed."
A crash came from the hallway. Eleanor had dropped the velvet box. The glass had shattered, and the white petal now lay on the floor beside something else—a tiny, folded slip of paper that hadn't been there before.
Julia picked it up, unfolding it carefully. Her breath caught.
It was a chemical formula. And beneath it, in Charlotte's handwriting:
*Proof. They're weaponizing the blooms.*
The storm finally broke outside, rain lashing against the windows like angry fingers. Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock ticked toward some unseen hour.
And James Greene began to sweat.