An August day, the angry sun. Wildflowers and smeared black ink on the sketchbook pages.

My eyes snap open. Black irises. Is there such a flower?

The ink is so dark. Geist’s words sliver through my heart. William Pritchett reached for you because he has unfinished business in this world.

In the print my own black eyes stare up at me, reproachful. Black pupils, black irises. What am I looking at that I can’t see?

A spy must engage all senses.

Taste, touch, smell, sight, hearing. But I can’t smell or touch or taste these flowers. “Why black irises?” I murmur aloud. What is the significance of this flower in particular? And in the next breath, I think I might know.


12.