Page 8 of Paws & Order

The only anonymous mail I usually get is a stack of unsigned city council complaints or letters to the mayor, which I read aloud to myself in dramatic voices.

Weird gifts are part of the scenery.

I remind myself of this all the way to the crosswalk, where the traffic light is stuck on red in its eternal rebellion.

I'm early, but downtown is already humming.

The coffee shop is open, serving triple shots to half the night shift and the town's two most committed graveyard gossips.

The bakery across the street is doing brisk business: fresh sourdough, lemon bars, and those killer cinnamon rolls Cassian swears by.

I wave to Clover, the witch baker, who's in the middle of summoning a fresh cake layer.

A column of flour rises obediently from the bowl and makes an elegant, if slightly menacing, swoop toward the oven.

I duck and dash past before the yeast can attack.

Inside City Hall, the lobby is quiet.

I get the sense that the building is waiting to exhale.

My office is the second door up the main staircase, right across the marble hall from the mayor's.

I unlock the door?—

And stop short.

There are more flowers.

A half dozen bouquets, all arranged neatly along the windowsills and in a line across my desk.

Every vase is different: a clear jam jar, a green-glass wine bottle, an old milk carton with the label scrubbed free.

The flowers vary too, but they all stick to a theme—dark, rich colors, strange shapes, petals with odd edges that look almost alive.

None have cards.

The air in my office is dense with a fragrance that sets my teeth on edge.

It's not unpleasant, just... potent.

I stare at the display, counting.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Each precisely spaced, as if whoever left them measured the gaps.

I hesitate at the threshold, not sure if I'm supposed to go in.