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 City Fresh Market appeared ahead. Its bright sign, the lit entrance, the same automatic doors. Only now everything looked different, sinister, like the set of a movie where something terrible is about to happen.

By the wall where the guard had thrown her out just a few hours ago stood Cassie. She was rocking the baby in her arms, her back against the brick wall. When she saw Eleanor, she wasn’t surprised. She didn’t even move. She just nodded as if she had been expecting exactly this.

“You came,” Cassie said. “So he brought them.”

Eleanor came closer, holding out the bouquet.

“Here,” she exhaled. “Take them. Tell me what’s wrong with them. I don’t understand. They’re just flowers.”

Cassie didn’t take the bouquet. Instead, she leaned over. She sniffed the air near them without bringing her face close. Then she recoiled, her face twisting in disgust.

“Put it on the ground,” she ordered. “And step back.”

Eleanor lowered the bouquet to the pavement and took several steps back. Cassie carefully squatted, shifting the baby to one arm. With her free hand, she unwrapped the paper. The bouquet opened like a poisonous blossom.

Cassie stared at the flowers, then pulled a worn-out phone with a cracked screen from her old jacket pocket and turned on the flashlight. The light fell on the petals, the stamens, the stems.

“See these?” Cassie pointed to the purple flowers in the center of the bouquet. “They’re not ordinary. They’re specially treated. For people like you. For asthmatics. Specially treated.”

Eleanor could barely hear her own voice.

“Yes. The pollen is weaponized. A concentrated allergen. If a person with healthy lungs smells it, they’ll sneeze and that’s it. If an asthmatic takes a deep breath? A severe fatal attack. If help doesn’t arrive in time.”

Cassie looked up at Eleanor.

“And help wouldn’t have arrived. Because you would have been at home alone. He would have gone somewhere. He’d have an alibi. You’d suffocate, collapse, die. The ambulance would come, but too late. Asthma, an attack, an accident.”

Silence. Eleanor stood there staring at the bouquet lying on the asphalt, unable to move. Cassie’s words fell into her consciousness like stones into water, sending out ripples of horror.

“How do you know?” she finally whispered. “How could he?”

“I saw this before,” Cassie said evenly, without emotion. “3 years ago. Another woman, another city, another husband. But the method is the same. I was living in a shelter then, worked as a cleaner at the hospital. I saw her when they brought her in. Already dead.”

“The husband brought her. The doctors shook their heads. Asthma, they said. It happens. I knew it wasn’t an accident. I had a vision, just like with you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“To who?” Cassie gave a humorless smile. “The police? They would have laughed. A homeless cleaner accuses a respectable man of murdering his wife with flowers. Who would have believed it? Besides, I never saw that husband again. He vanished. Collected the insurance and left.”

Eleanor felt her legs give way. She leaned against the wall to keep from falling.

“Insurance,” she repeated slowly. “Oh God. Michael. Last week he had me sign some papers. He said it was for work, for some benefits package, an insurance package.”

Cassie nodded as if this was all expected.

“Most likely a life insurance policy. In the event of your death. The beneficiary: him. A large sum. Large enough to solve all his financial problems.”

“But why?” Eleanor’s voice broke into a sob. “Why? We’ve been together for 5 years. I love him. He couldn’t.”

“He could,” Cassie interrupted. “Money. It’s always money. Or another woman. Or debts. Or all of it together. You make money, but you’re worth even more dead. It’s easier to get rid of you and live comfortably.”

Eleanor covered her face with her hands. This is impossible. This can’t be true. Michael was her husband. They slept in the same bed, had breakfast together, made plans. How could he? How could he stoop to this?

“What do I do?” she asked through her tears. “I have nowhere to go. I can’t go home. I can’t.”

“You can,” Cassie said firmly. “And you must. But not alone. First, we call for help. The right help.”

She stood up, holding the baby close, and pulled out her phone.

“What are you doing?” Eleanor wiped her tears.

“Calling 911,” Cassie said, dialing the number. “You need a medical record before anything else happens. Understand? This is important. You need to be on record. They need to examine you, note the diagnosis, register that there was contact with an irritant, that your life was threatened. Otherwise you won’t be able to prove it later.”

“911, what’s your emergency?” A dispatcher’s voice came through.

“There’s a woman here having an asthma attack,” Cassie said clearly. “She smelled some flowers. She’s having trouble breathing. She needs help urgently. Address is 1200 North State Street at the City Fresh Market.”

Eleanor listened to the conversation as if in a dream. Everything was happening too fast, too unreal. An hour ago she was happy: promotion, joy. And now she was on the street, shivering with cold and fear, learning that her husband wanted to kill her.

“They’re on their way,” Cassie said, putting her phone away. “10 minutes. Sit down. Breathe evenly. Don’t panic.”

Eleanor slid down the wall. It was genuinely hard to breathe. She no longer knew if it was from fear or because she had inhaled some of the poison in the bouquet.