Actually, it’s a gangly, pimpled boy no older than twenty, and he’s pushing a cart of flowers. There are at least ten bouquets in plain glass vases, filmy red cling wrap protecting them from the rain. “Naomi Westfield?” he asks, consulting a clipboard. Brandy picks up my hand and holds it aloft. I can’t speak. I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach and don’t know why. “These are for you.”
