Her husband cut down all the roses she had grown for 20 years. He said, ‘Enough wasting your life on nonsense!’ And he cut them down to the root.

That night sleep would not come easily because she lay awake listening to the crackling sounds outside while Franklin burned the cut rose bushes in a metal barrel near the shed. The scent of burning petals drifted through the house and clung to her hair and skin as if the memory of the garden refused to leave her.

Morning arrived heavy with the smell of ash and silence.

Franklin slept deeply beside her while his silver lighter rested on the nightstand where an engraved phrase caught the sunlight.

The words read, “The hunter never misses.”

Theresa looked at the lighter and smiled slowly with a quiet expression that carried more danger than anger ever could.

Destroying a garden might be easy, she thought, yet living beside the woman who chose to rebuild it in her own way would prove far more difficult.

Franklin left late that morning to visit the hardware store in Asheville where he claimed he liked to repair his fishing equipment before traveling to Lake Hartwell on weekends. As soon as the truck disappeared down the road Theresa walked outside and crossed the yard toward the shed.