Maggie stands at the board the way a general would reviewing battle plans, sipping tequila from a coffee mug that says #1 MILF.
“We’re going full psychological warfare,” Ruby declares, pacing with the energy of an unhinged professor. “But ethically. Emotionally supportive sabotage.”
“James is off-limits,” Sloane says gently.
Maggie raises an eyebrow. “Is he?” We all turn. “Have you met my husband?” she goes on, setting down her mug. “He’s been pulling dad jokes and old-man riddles for a decade. Man uses the word whippersnapper unironically. It’s time for him to be confused for once.”
Ruby cheers. “YES. Maggie gets it.”
“Alright,” Maggie says. “Here’s the plan. James always keeps that antique alarm clock on his nightstand, right? The one he winds every night like it’s 1953?” Everyone nods. “We reset it every night by exactly seventeen minutes. Not enough for him to notice right away. But enough to slowly make him question everything.”
“That’s… evil,” Frankie says, impressed.
Maggie grins. “By day six, he’ll be spiral-Googling early dementia symptoms. Then we give him a card that says ‘Gotcha, Grandpa.’”
“Genius,” Ruby whispers.
“Now for East,” Maggie says as she takes a sip from her mug.
“Oh, I’ve got this,” Darla says, eyes glittering. “He’s too tidy. Too disciplined. That apartment of his? Military precision. Alphabetized spice rack.”
“So?” I ask, slightly surprised because he’s the jokester of the group.
“So… we break in and swap everything. Just slightly. Salt in the sugar jar. Towels one shade off. Move his bed two inches to the left.”
“That’s so subtle it’s diabolical,” Sloane breathes.
“We can tell him we were testing his perimeter security if he catches us,” Ruby adds helpfully.
“We’re all going to hell,” Frankie mutters, laughing.
By the end of the night, we have assignments, code names, decoys, props, and a custom soundtrack Ruby titles Prank War Soundtrack Vol. 1: Feminine Rage and Classic Bangers.
My ribs still burn from the tattoo, but it doesn’t compare to the ache in my cheeks from smiling so damn hard.
Somehow, in the middle of grief, bruises, and memories that won’t quit, we’ve made space for something else. Something dangerous. Ridiculous. Something that sounds a lot like healing.
At some point, when the laughter dulls to embers and the sugar high wanes, I find myself curled sideways on the couch, arms wrapped around a throw pillow that smells faintly of sage and whiskey. My fingers tap a quiet rhythm into the fabric, a verse without melody. A lyric trying to be born.
One wing broken. One sharp edge gleaming. Not a song. Not yet. But maybe someday. For the first time in a long, long time, I don’t try to silence it.
Chapter 40
Malachi
Somethingiswrong.Iknow it the second I step into the clubhouse and the lights flicker. Just once. Just enough. Then comes the faint sound, so soft it could be imagined. Laughter. A child’s laugh. Light. Echoed. Wrong.
I freeze in the doorway, one gloved hand still on the knob, every muscle coiled tight. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, goosebumps prickling beneath the leather.
The room is empty. No one is supposed to be here.
I step inside, boots heavy against the worn hardwood, the quiet squeak of my leather jacket the only answer. My gaze sweeps every shadow, every corner. TV off. Pool table untouched. No music. No smell of food or beer or smoke. Just silence.
And something else. The air feels colder than it should. Heavy. Still.
I shake it off. I’ve seen too much shit in my life to jump at ghost stories. Chalk it up to exhaustion. Or stress. Maybe the fight last weekend still rattles my bones more than I’ll admit. Maybe I’m too keyed-up, waiting for something to go wrong again.
But, three hours later, my boots are missing.
