The voices came, as I knew they would. One low and gravely. The other, pitchy and sharp. They had arrived to see the shattered glass. The torn up rugs. The splatter on the floor.

I lay still, listening.

“No sign of forced entry. Who’s the resident?” The gravel voice said. Their feet dragged on the floor, a pause, and then the faint sound of bones popping. “Looks like she was stabbed, Eve, more than once, by this scalpel.” The scrape of metal dragging echoed loudly. I squirmed.

“Her name was Petunia Notting.” The pitchy voice said, ricocheting against the hallway walls.

That must be Eve.

A squeak of the cabinet door, plastic moving on wood and a cry, “_O! This smells foul!_” Followed by the bang of the door.

And she was in the kitchen.

The scalpel was easy to move, a simple flick landed it next to Petunia. The bucket, however, proved difficult. The indentions from the handles were still raw.

“Grant, you need to see this.” The pitch in Eve’s voice grew higher, urgent.

There was another time when Petunia’s house was in disarray. When she first purchased it, it was run down and lived in. She had hired Frank because he was handy. And he didn’t ask questions. A fresh coat of paint. New cabinetry. He didn’t bat an eye when she asked to install more vents and ductwork to a house with excellent air flow.

Currency was enough to quiet voices. Or silence them.

I am perched in one of those newly added vents under the buffet. Petunia lies in front of me, her blood slowly outlining her. Her favorite goat patterned apron was splattered with strokes of crimson.

A woman was bent low looking over Petunia. Her hair was raven black, a stark contrast to Petunia’s snowy white. It fell over her eyes, as she looked near Petunia’s hand. At the small clumps of dirt.

I tensed at the sight. At how Eve examined her, like she was a specimen.

“She’s been butchered.” Eve finally said, no longer looking at Petunia’s hands. She looked up, her eyes pausing on the buffet.

I shrunk back as Eve called, “Any other residents listed?”

“None. No next of kin either.” The man called back.

I followed his voice to the second vent, located above the pantry in the kitchen. It gave me a bird’s eye view above the island. And the bucket.

A short man with graying hair stared at the bucket, his arm covering his mouth.

“Do you think it’s hers?” Grant finally asked, dropping his arm.

It was a risk, the bucket. It’ll expose Petunia and her deeds, which may be seen as unethical at best and barbaric at worst.

Eve lifted up the goat apron to find more blood and a gaping hole. “Only one way to find out. Let’s bag her up. And the contents of the bucket.”

Feet shuffled with a symphony of bangs, as they took the contents and Petunia away.

I tightened my grip on the ivory bone, shrinking further back into the metal.

_She will be back._

Eve and Grant hung in the dining room, talking quietly. Eve was glancing at the buffet, at the vent below it. I remained in the dark, listening.

_Was this a crime of passion?_

_Why gut her like that?_

_Who could do this to a nurse?_

Petunia wore many names. Healer. Saint. Witch. Blessed. She was gifted in the fine arts of apothecary: medical witchcraft. Part of her craft was now tucked in a bag in the depths of the cellar.

Before the arrival of Eve and Grant, there was another. He had traveled far to find her, as many did. Suffering a cracked rib, he begged her to grow him a new one. She was successful, as she always was.

First the man was grateful. Then he was cunning. He told her she should not limit herself. Why stop at growing bones? Why not grow organs? Give someone a beating heart?

Petunia knew she could do more, craved it before this man came along. She was missing a partner, as I could not do what was needed.

And whether it was devine intervention or a curse from the underworld, this man had arrived to help. At the beginning.

I called the man Steam. He never lingered long enough to fully grasp, but enough to leave a sticky, heated feeling in me.

I do not like Steam. He took something from me.

And though I do not trust Eve and Grant, I needed them.

***

They returned one sunrise later.

Eve’s eyes immediately went to the buffet but I was under the dining room window this time. The floor creaked under her as she approached the table.

“Did the team miss this?” She asked.

“Looks like a journal.” Grant said, the floors groaning in unison as he walked towards her.

I ached all over from the stretching and the lifting.

“There are numbers written down next to … fruit?” Eve muttered, flipping the pages.

He asked, “What kind of nurse was she again?”

Eve flipped the journal back to the first page. “Transplant.”

I remember when Petunia passed her nursing exam, with no education. She had found her broken and her tired masses.

“This … is a customer list.” Grant said, running his hands through his stubble.

“And the fruit is the product.” Eve finished, chancing another glance at the buffet.

“So Petunia was running a black market for … organs?“ Grant let out a low whistle. “That’ll get you killed. People don’t like line jumpers.”

Petunia started at the bottom, the ones completely forgotten. Her method allowed for nothing to be wasted, not even in death. Like most apothecary and craft, there _are_ rules. Steam ruined that.

“It’s those people who _have_ been waiting for years who turn to the black market. Some would say she’s noble.” Eve said, shutting the journal.

I liked Eve.

“Nothing noble about breaking the law.” Grant started.

I do not like Grant.

“But she didn’t deserve to die.” Grant finished.

I rustled in agreement, forgetting where I was. Eve shot her eyes to the window, causing me to quickly shrink back.

Her eyes were sharp as she said, “Let’s check the cellar.”

My body was heavier, weaker, so descending back down was slow. But Eve and Grant were slower.

They discussed how Petunia was obtaining these organs, as feet dragged on the stairs. She was the middle man, they said. She provided the clients.

They were half right. My body groaned at the memory of moving the tools. The cellar was her workshop, the only clue remaining was the multiple drains on the floor, thanks again to Frank.

Grant’s shadow was first, his gray hair a beacon within the dark cellar.

I shrunk and shriveled at the sight.

He was running his hand against the wall, looking for a light switch he would not find. Eve’s shadow, smaller and taller, was at his heels. They both turned to the sunlight creeping in, surprised to see it underground.

For all the gruesomeness plaguing Petunia’s life, the garden was anything but. She transformed the dark, dusty corner of the cellar into a greenhouse. Fogged glass windows outlined the back wall, looking into the backyard. There were budding tomato plants, vining cucumbers, blooming yellow flowers, and a trailing ivy. Against the windows, a pothos plant in differing shades of green sprawled up them, acting as a backsplash. It had lavender bushels bursting through the stems. A snake plant jutted up, it’s tips tickling the ceiling. There were several herbs in baskets, each smelling fresh and savory.

Bigger windows in a cellar would have most handymen questioning. Not Frank.

Grant’s mouth hung open, eyes wide. The garden was well kept, minus some shriveled leaves on the pothos.

Eve’s eyes paused on the windows before looking down at the soil. It was saturated, freshly watered.

“The soil is wet. It seems someone has been caring for it in Petunia’s absence.” She proclaimed.

I shrunk further, hoping the rustling was just a mere whisper.

Eve snapped her head up, looking to the windows. She started walking around the garden, tapping the walls, hoping a secret door would appear.

A crescendo of bells broke the silence, as Grant lifted his phone to his ear. He signaled to Eve he was going back upstairs.

Eve turned to the back wall, following the vining pothos down to the cracked floor. Some of the plant streatched into the cracks and she bent to tap the floor. A hallow echo answered her and I breathed in, waiting.

_“Eve!”_ Grant’s voice bellows and Eve blinks. “Coroner’s got something.”

Eve stood up, untangling the pothos vines from her belt loop before heading back upstairs.

I wrapped around the bag of glowing white seeds, Petunia’s magic, letting out a deep sigh. And the other around Eve’s business card.

***

Eve sunk in the chair, a book of Greek myths opened on her lap. Her head ached, as stills of mismatched green eyes, bloody organs, and dirt flashed through it.

The liver they found was not Petunia’s. It belonged to a Matthias Thorn. A victim who was murdered by a bullet to the chest.

Petunia must have killed him for his liver. She shivered at the thought.

She had defended her this morning. _A murderer!_

But even the word didn’t sound right.

She was missing something, _someone_. She wanted to go back to the house, down to the cellar.

Her phone chimed. Eve blinked before calling Grant.

“They found the gun.”

***

Using the computer was new. But it wasn’t as challenging as moving the bucket.

My first message was an answer to an ad. _“One large apple, ready to be picked.”_

My second message was a tip. A gun. The murder weapon of a young man. Registered to one Steam.

It wasn’t hard to obtain the gun. Things go missing in Petunia’s house. Especially things not wanting to be found.

***

I was her first success. She gave me life.

Her idea of gifting life was addictive, nourishing even.

She could make life out of death, specifically death caused by suddenness or natural causes. A life already planning to die.

This was the rule, her moral compass.

I could not get her the bodies, the ones who were being called home. Steam did what I could not, in many ways.

At first, he understood. He brought the bodies matching Petunia’s criteria. She took their parts, parts others needed to live, and embedded them in her seeds and craft. Those on the donor lists would mysteriously drop off, starting their newly gifted life.

Steam slowly started offering Petunia’s services, for a price. Petunia was enraged but Steam persuaded her, saying he needed the money.

He said he could get her bodies faster too, but she forbade him.

The final blow came when Steam brought in a young man. Petunia didn’t notice at first.

But I did.

I learned a lot from watching her.

After she took his liver, she saw.

Steam had taken a life not ready for death. Twice that night.

***

Night grows around the park, the street lights illuminating the trees.

The darkness reminds me of the soil we all return to. Of the soil I am hiding in.

A shadow approaches, carrying a small cooler.

Taking the cooler will be challenging. But killing him? That would be easy.

***

A tip brought Eve and Grant to a park.

They were expecting the gun. Not a man, whose body was cold and rigid, his face etched in agony. Or with his stomach opened, wrapped in greenery and vines.

The pothos leaves were splattered in blood.

Grant’s hand covered his mouth.

Eve was frozen.

It wasn’t green eyes she had seen in those vents. It was leaves.

***

I was made an extension of Petunia’s deepest desires and regrets. With the bone I took, the liver I retrieved, and the seeds I saved, I will grow her anew.