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?

“You think I’m crazy,” Cassie offered a humorless smile. “You think some homeless girl is just rambling. Maybe. But if your husband brings flowers home tonight, remember my words and bring them to me right here, immediately.”

“Why?” Eleanor finally found her voice.

“So you don’t die,” Cassie answered simply. “I’ll be here until it gets dark, then I’m going to the shelter. If you come, you’ll find me at this market.”

She shook her head. “Don’t think this is a joke. I never joke about death.”

Eleanor took a step back. Her heart was racing. Absurd nonsense. Michael had been her husband for 5 years. They had been through so much together: moves, the mortgage on their condo, her illness 3 years ago when her asthma got so bad she was hospitalized for a week. He was by her side, caring for her, bringing her medicine.

“I… I have to go,” Eleanor stammered.

“Go,” Cassie nodded. “But remember the flowers. Don’t smell them.”

Tonight, Eleanor turned and walked away quickly. Her legs moved automatically; her thoughts were a jumble. A delusion, of course, a delusion. The woman clearly had mental health issues. Homeless people often say strange things; it’s a known fact. Not something to take seriously.

But then why were her hands shaking? Why did her chest suddenly feel tight as if she couldn’t get enough air?

Eleanor stopped, pulled out her inhaler, and took a puff. The medication worked quickly; her breathing evened out. Psychosomatic, she decided. Just the shock of it all.

She walked fast, her thoughts racing. The promotion, the joy, and now this strange feeling that wouldn’t let go. Cassie’s words spun in her head like a broken record. Flowers. Don’t smell them. You won’t survive.

Absurd nonsense. Eleanor shook her head, trying to banish the obsessive thought. Michael loved her. They were husband and wife. He wasn’t perfect, of course; sometimes he was irritable, sometimes distant.

He had been a little withdrawn the last few months, but that was work stress. He was having a tough time too; his company was going through a reorganization, layoffs. Everyone on edge. But murder? Impossible.

Eleanor reached her street. Her building was a 5-minute walk away, a standard brick apartment building where she and Michael had rented a small two-bedroom on the fourth floor for the last 2 years. Nothing special, but it was cozy.

She went up the stairs, took out her keys. The apartment was quiet. Michael usually got home later, around 8. He worked for a construction firm, irregular hours.

Eleanor changed her clothes, went to the kitchen, and put the kettle on. She needed to calm down, have some tea, forget this bizarre encounter. Just a coincidence. What sort of things get into a street psychic’s head?

She opened the fridge, looked at the bottle of champagne. See, we’ll celebrate together. She would wait for Michael, tell him about the promotion, and they would celebrate like a normal couple, like a family.

Her phone vibrated. A text from Michael: “Be home in an hour. I have some news.” Eleanor frowned. News? What kind? He usually just wrote “Running late” or “On my way.” News was unusual.

She texted back: “Okay. I’m home. I have news too.”

She put the phone on the table and went into the bathroom. A long hot shower, that always helped her relax. She closed her eyes, letting the water run over her face, feeling the tension slowly wash away.

Flowers tonight? Eleanor’s eyes snapped open. Enough. Stop thinking about it.

She wasn’t superstitious. She didn’t believe in predictions. It was just exhaustion, a long day.

The sound of a key in the lock. Eleanor froze. An hour hadn’t passed. Michael was home early.

She quickly dried off, threw on her robe, and peeked into the hallway. Michael was at the door taking off his jacket, and in his hands was a huge, vibrant bouquet. Roses, lilies, some exotic flowers.

The heavy, sharp scent hit Eleanor in the face the moment she stepped into the hall. Michael turned and smiled.

“Hey,” he said. “These are for you.”

Eleanor stood in the bathroom doorway staring at the enormous brilliant bouquet, almost screaming with its colors. Red roses, white lilies, some purple flowers whose names she didn’t know, greenery, ribbons, wrapping paper.

Michael held it all out in front of him like a shield and smiled. The smile was wide but a little stiff, forced.

“Congratulations on the promotion,” he said, taking a step forward.

Eleanor instinctively took a step back. The scent hit her nose so hard it took her breath away. Cloying, heavy, suffocating. As if someone had poured a bottle of cheap perfume in the hallway.

“You… how did you find out?” she managed to say, feeling her throat tighten.

“Brenda texted. Your coworker. Congratulated me too, said you were a rock star, that you earned it.”

Brenda. Yes, of course, she would text. She had Michael’s number. Logical. Everything was logical.

But why was he holding the bouquet so strangely? Why wasn’t he putting it down? Why was he so close that the scent was becoming unbearable?

“Smell them,” Michael urged, bringing the flowers even closer to her face. “Go on, they’re fresh. I just bought them.”

Eleanor took another step back, her back hitting the bathroom door frame. Her chest began to constrict, a familiar sensation, the prelude to an attack when the air seems to thicken, when every breath requires effort.