My Husband Bought Me Flowers To Celebrate My Promotion. A Homeless Woman Just Warned Me That Smelling Them Will Kill Me. Should I Trust My Husband Of Five Years Or A Stranger?

The court denied bail. Michael was in jail awaiting trial. His lawyer tried to argue it was an accident, that his client didn’t know about the flowers’ properties, that he just wanted to make his wife happy.

But the evidence was irrefutable. The insurance policy, the camera footage, the paramedic’s testimony, the forensic analysis of the flowers, Cassie’s testimony.

Eleanor filed for divorce. Her lawyer said the process would take several months, but it was a formality. After such circumstances, no court would deny the dissolution of the marriage.

She also filed for a division of assets, though there was nothing to divide. A rented apartment, Michael’s old car, no savings. 5 years of marriage had left only emptiness and the bitterness of betrayal.

Word got out at work. The news spread quickly. Colleagues whispered behind her back; they looked at her with pity or curiosity.

Brenda hugged her and cried. “I’m so sorry. I texted him about the promotion. I didn’t know. I couldn’t have imagined.”

Eleanor calmed her, told her it wasn’t her fault. Only one person was to blame and he would answer for it.

Mr. Peterson called her into his office a week after Michael’s arrest. “Eleanor, I want you to know the company is on your side. If you need legal help, psychological support, come to us. We’ll help. And your promotion still stands. You’ve earned it.”

Eleanor thanked him, fighting with all her might not to cry right there in his office. She wasn’t used to compassion, wasn’t used to people genuinely caring about her.

But more than anything she wanted to see Cassie. The woman who had saved her life, who had trusted her intuition and not kept quiet. Eleanor went to that supermarket several times, looked for her, but Cassie wasn’t there.

The guard, the same one who had thrown her out 3 weeks ago, just shrugged. “Haven’t seen her. Hasn’t been around for a while.”

Eleanor called the number Cassie had given her, but no one answered. Her anxiety grew. Where was she? What had happened to her? Maybe she had been taken to a shelter or left the city?

Detective Miller said Cassie had come in for questioning, given a detailed statement, but they hadn’t contacted her again. She had no fixed address.

“But her testimony is in the file,” Miller clarified. “She’s an official witness. If we need to, we’ll find her.”

That didn’t reassure Eleanor. She had to see Cassie. She had to say thank you. She had to do at least something to repay her for her salvation.

On Saturday, exactly 3 weeks after that terrible night, Eleanor went to the supermarket again. It was a warm October day. The sun was shining brightly, the leaves on the trees were turning yellow and red. Autumn in full swing. A beautiful, peaceful autumn, so starkly contrasting with the hell in her soul.

The supermarket was the same. People went in and out with bags. Life went on. Eleanor stopped by the same wall where Cassie had stood. An empty spot.

“Looking for someone?” a voice asked from behind her.

Eleanor turned. An elderly woman with a shopping bag was looking at her curiously.

“Yes!” Eleanor nodded. “A young woman with a baby. She used to be here often. Dark hair.”

“Oh, her.” The woman pursed her lips. “They took her away about two weeks ago.”

Eleanor’s heart sank. “Where did they take her?”

“To some shelter. Social services came, said the child needs proper care, that the street is no place for him. She didn’t resist, went on her own.” The woman fell silent. “She was strange. Never asked for money, didn’t complain. Just sat and watched as if she saw something others didn’t.”

“Do you know which shelter?”

“How would I know? I didn’t ask.” The woman shrugged and walked away.

Eleanor took out her phone, started searching for homeless shelters in the city. There were five. She started calling them one by one. The first three said they had no one named Cassie. The fourth didn’t answer. The fifth, the Hope Shelter on the outskirts of the city, a woman answered.

“Cassie? Yes, we have someone like that with a child. Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of hers. Can I see her?”

“Visiting hours are from 2 to 4 p.m. Come on by.”

Eleanor hung up and immediately went to the nearest children’s store. She spent a long time choosing a stroller, not the most expensive one, but sturdy, strong, with comfortable wheels. The saleswoman helped her pack it.

Then Eleanor went through the aisles putting everything she might need into the cart: soft toys, a teddy bear and a rabbit, jars of baby food, boxes of cereal, fruit purees, bananas, apples. She took whatever might be useful for the baby, not thinking about the price. This was her way of saying thank you. The only way to at least partially thank the woman who had saved her life.

Eleanor arrived an hour later. The shelter was housed in an old two-story building that had once been a dormitory. Plastered walls, blue paint. Inside it was clean and warm.

The administrator wrote down her details, led her to a visiting room, a small room with two sofas and a small table.

“I’ll call her now.”

Eleanor waited, nervous. The door opened. Cassie came in. She looked different; her hair was clean, braided into a neat plait. She was wearing simple but clean clothes, jeans and a sweater. The baby was sleeping in her arms wrapped in a soft blanket. The child’s face was pink, healthy.