The rain in Calder City always smelled like wet coal and exhaust.

It dripped from the rusted fire escape outside the back office of Callahan’s Flowers.

The yellow lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flickered every time the wind blew hard.

My father, Richard, did not look at me.

He kept his eyes on his scuffed leather shoes.

“It is the only way, Maeve,” he whispered.

His hands shook as he rubbed his palms against his wet trousers.

The neon sign from the diner across the street pulsed red across his face.

Three men stood behind him in the cramped, damp room.

The air was thick with the scent of cheap carnations and expensive cologne.

I knew who they were because everyone in Calder City knew them.

Roman Vescari wore a gray wool coat that didn’t have a single speck of dirt on it.

He held a small black notebook in his gloved hands, his fingers perfectly still.

To his left stood Declan Rourke, his collar turned up against the cold.

A thick scar ran from Declan’s jawline down into his collar, and he smelled of tobacco and damp asphalt.

In the corner sat Victor Salvi.

His silver hair caught the red neon light, making him look like a ghost in an expensive Italian suit.

“You sold the shop,” I said.

My voice did not shake.

“The shop is worthless, Maeve,” Richard said, his voice cracking. “The debt is too high.”

“So you sold me,” I said.

Richard did not answer.

He pocketed a thick brown envelope, stepped around Declan, and slipped out the back door into the rain.

The door clicked shut, leaving only the sound of the water rushing down the gutter.

The room smelled of bruised roses and wet wool.

“He cleared his ledger,” Roman said.

His voice was flat, like a ledger entry itself.

“You belong to the three of us now,” Declan said, stepping forward.

His massive shadow blocked the red light from the window.

“We will find a use for you,” Declan added, a harsh smile touching his lips.

I stood up from my wooden stool.

I wiped the green flower sap from my fingers onto my canvas apron.