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A soft whir of an electric car drags my attention through the yellowed greenhouse windows. A black Mercedes passes the Turning Leaf Nursery sign, turns into the parking lot, and a knot forms inside my chest. The car doesn’t have a lick of West Texas dirt on it and it belongs in my place of work, my safe haven, about as well as a turd in a punch bowl. “Not here for you, not here for you,” I mutter, doing my best to steady my hands, take deep breaths. The driver door opens and out steps a tall man wearing business slacks, a fitted white shirt, and shoes as black and shiny as his car. Odd to wear to a gardening center, which only confirms my suspicions. Locals don’t wear that type of costume—dirt leaps off these tables like a desperate bar fly at closing time. “Darla,” Larissa calls out, her normal boss-bitch tone teeter-tottering on the edge of apprehension. I’ve warned her of this moment, the inevitable second my past would come calling, and me, kicking and screaming, would have no choice but to follow. “Someone’s here to see you.” I force myself to breathe, and trim away the dead leaves of the plant in front of me, taking more time than I need, while my thoughts whirl around my escape room brain—only there is no escape. I’ve lost the key. “Tell him I’ll be there soon.” I turn back to my plant patient and try to calm my breaths as I pat the soil around the stem of the struggling I-can’t-even-remember-what-it-is. My hands go through the motions, but I can’t think of anything other than, why now? “No need, I’m here.” His deep voice fills the room, tensing my arms, and the plant under my fingertips seems to shiver in response. His inability to respect boundaries speaks volumes of the man. I glance at him through the mirror, then turn my attention back to my work. “How can I help you?” I say without turning around, my tone so flat it’s almost convincing. I take my time and scoop my personal mixture of soil, sand, coffee grounds, and a dash of Epsom salt into a new pot, anything to keep from facing this man. Maybe he’s just another client. Maybe he needs the plant doctor. Maybe I’m in denial. “Well, I’m not sure if you can or not,” he drawls. “You work here long?” I make room for the root ball, and gently place the hydrangea in her new home, despite curdling dread stiffening my muscles. “’Bout six years,” I respond. “Six years, seven months, from what I understand. And before that, the QuikMart in San Saba, am I right?” I freeze, and it’s as if his words are beating me from the inside out. Turning me black and blue before I can recover and run. In the mirror, he opens a brown folder, checks the contents, and locks his sky-blue eyes on me. “If I’ve done my job well, then that would make you Darla Caraway.” Read today!