The clock above Central Station's public counter clicked between minutes. Malik seated me beneath it while he retrieved a gray records box.

My younger voice hurt. I had apologized for not noticing the missing money sooner. I described Simon as brilliant, impulsive, and under pressure, as if personality could reconcile accounts. I defended Alma, our bookkeeper, because she was nearing retirement and claimed she entered whatever invoices we supplied.

Malik did not promise the bouquet would reopen the fraud investigation. He separated the questions. Who sent the roses? Was the delivery harassment? Did new evidence connect to an old offense? That structure calmed me. Simon had always survived by blending every issue into a cloud of family loyalty and business confusion.

The florist's security camera showed an older woman wearing a raincoat and scarf. I recognized Alma from the way she held her left shoulder. She had purchased the flowers but asked the shop to discard the handwritten order slip. The clerk had retained it because cash orders above a certain amount required a record. Alma had written only my address and the number one hundred.

I felt betrayed again. Malik asked whether Alma might be warning me rather than threatening me. I had no answer. He called the last number listed for her and reached a disconnected line. While we waited for address records, the station clock clicked toward five.

At three minutes past, Alma entered carrying a red accordion file against her chest. She stopped beneath the clock when she saw me. Then she placed the file on the counter and raised both hands, though no one had asked her to. She said the roses represented one hundred false invoices she had helped Simon process. She had sent them because she knew I would call the police, and because fear had kept her from walking into the station alone.