Darius was acting strange. Not just strange—suspicious. He had become overly attentive, overly caring. It was unusual and felt more unsettling than if he had simply been rude or hostile.

On Friday, he bought her flowers, a big bouquet of white and yellow blooms wrapped in crinkly cellophane, “just because.” Kiana took the bouquet, thanked him, and went to find a vase. Her hands were shaking.

In their five years together, Darius had only bought her flowers twice—on her birthday and sometimes on Mother’s Day—and even that had been inconsistent.

“Do you like them?” he asked, peeking into the kitchen.

“Very much,” she replied, trimming the stems with scissors. “They’re beautiful.”