“Timeline.” She grabs the dry-erase marker again. “Friday night—you heard the confession. Saturday morning—you found the ring. Now this Saturday—we’re going to the club.”
“Very organized for someone who claims Mercury is in retrograde.”
“Mercury being in retrograde is EXACTLY why we need to be organized.” She says this like it’s obvious. “When the universe is in chaos, we create structure. It’s witchcraft 101.”
“Is it though?”
“I’m manifesting justice, Dylan. Let me have this.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “Okay but seriously—what’s the yellow yarn for?”
She pauses. Looks at the board. “...I genuinely don’t remember. I was very confident about it at 2 a.m. though.”
“Should we pick a meaning now or just commit to the mystery?”
“Commit to the mystery. It feels more authentic to our investigative skills.”
“Which are?”
“Enthusiastic but underdeveloped.”
“Like a true crime podcast in human form.”
“Exactly.”
We clink our wine bottles together. It should feel ridiculous—two women in pajamas, drinking wine through straws, staring at a murder board in our living room.
But it doesn’t feel ridiculous.
It feels like the only thing we can do.
THUMP.
We both freeze mid-sip, straws still in our mouths.
Something clattered down the hall. Not a subtle sound. A full crash.
“Did you—” Alex starts.
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other. Her eyes are wide. Mine probably match.
“Could be something falling in my room,” I offer.
“Could be.”
Neither of us moves.
“One of us should check,” Alex says.
“Yep.”
Still neither of us moves.
“Okay on three,” she says. “One... two...”
“Three,” I finish, and we both shuffle toward the hallway like the world’s least coordinated SWAT team.
