Suspects
Ellen paced back and forth in her room, her feet moving restlessly over the floor. The room felt too small, like the walls were closing in on her. What happened this morning was still sitting heavily with her.
She was biting her nails, an old nervous habit she hadn't done in years, but now she couldn't stop. Her eyes were wide, her mind racing as she replayed everything that had happened, over and over.
She had already thrown away the roses—tossed them into the trash outside. The memory of them made her stomach turn, and she shuddered, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the image. "Ugh," she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling slightly. "What kind of sick person sends roses soaked in blood?" She felt a wave of nausea rise in her chest, and she pressed a hand to her stomach, closing her eyes for a moment to steady herself.