The doorbell peals just as I step out of the shower.

It's loud, long, and persistent as if the person on the other side is determined to be let in no matter what. I lean against the window, towel gripped firmly in hand, as water drips down my legs, and crane my neck to see along the side of the house to the street. Parked out front, I just make out the bumper of a brown truck.

Ron.

The tension I'm holding releases as I drop the towel and pull on my sweatpants over wet skin. At the top of the stairs, I fly down, tugging my tank top over my head. When I get to the door and yank it open, Ron, our delivery man, has his back to me, one boot on the last step, the other firmly on the sidewalk. I call out to him to come back and he stops and does a one-eighty.

"Thought no one was home, what with me having to ring three times," he says, making his way to me, a long rectangular box in his arms. "I'll need a signature."

"Who's it for? Cassie or Leila—?" I barely get my name out when he cuts me off.

"Don't matter." He scratches at his beard. "Just need to show that someone accepted the package."

As I take the stylus and scribble my name on the tablet, he says, "You two girls sure get a lot of packages."

My gaze shoots to the name embroidered on his uniform for just a second before looking away. I'm not about to tell him it's Dad's way of trying to micromanage my life from where he lives almost three hours away. Every week at random times, he sends a new book with a list of questions and a deadline for answering them. Every package needs to be signed for. It's Dad's way of tracking whether I'm home when I'm supposed to be.

Ron glances at the signature before tucking the device into his belt and making his way back to his truck. "You have a good day."

Still, this looks more like flowers than books, which is not like Dad at all since he doesn't like waste and what's more wasteful than something beautiful that blooms for only a few days and then dies?

In the living room, I kneel at the coffee table with the box in front of me. It's most likely for Cassie but that doesn't stop me from untying the burlap string and lifting the cardboard lid to find a dozen large roses nestled against snow-white tissue paper. Their scent fills the air as I lift one out, and frown at the dark burgundy, almost black petals.

For one second, as I hold it up, my mind flashes to Jaime and the red rose he gave me at the October dance. I shiver. Could it be?

Nope. I won't go there.

I set it aside and search the box, the tissue paper crinkling as my fingers poke between the stems, looking for a card.

A bird chirps, drawing my gaze to the open window and beyond it to the trees lining the two-lane street with its old houses that have seen better days. A creepy silence fills the air as I wait, heartbeat slowing, for something to happen.

That's when I spot it from the corner of my eye. A single word scrawled in light pencil and so easy to miss under the tissue paper and rose stems.

YOU

I stare at it, my forehead bunching as I try to grasp what it means. Dumping the roses out onto the table I lift the box to examine the bottom of it more closely.

BREATH

My gaze scans the rest of the surface and I find two more words, TAKE and EVERY, one in each corner.

I read them in order starting from the top left... every... breath... you... take...

A shiver races down my spine.

I don't know what any of this means.

Why would someone send us this?

Why would they write that?

I shove the roses in the box and stamp the lid down before backing slowly out of the room. Blood pounds in my ears.

I need to call Cassie.

I need her to figure this all out for me.

But even as the idea flashes to life, it extinguishes itself, the wild beating slowing in my chest. Cassie would hate that. She hates when I bother her at work.

My phone beeps. It takes me a minute to realize it's the alarm Cassie set to remind me I have twenty minutes to get to school.

I'm still standing there frozen, staring at the box on the table when Cassie's words surface from last night when we passed each other on the stairs, "I'm heading to bed, kiddo. Don't forget to grab the car keys from my bag."

My hand flies to my mouth, flowers forgotten.

I am so screwed. 

[Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who gave their opinion on this first chapter.  Let me know what you think of the changes and whether it's more engaging now.]