Me: Yes.
Axel: WEAPON. That’s a WEAPON.
Jace: Technically, anything can be a weapon if you’re creative enough.
Blake: Not helping, Jace.
Axel: Quick! Tell her you love her! Murderers never kill people who love them!
Me: She’s saying something. I have to go.
Axel: WHAT’S SHE SAYING?
Axel: RYKER, DON’T LEAVE US HANGING.
Axel: He’s dead.
Blake: AXEL.
Axel: Death by whisk. What a way to go. Can I have his car?
Blake: I’m leaving this group chat.
Axel: No, you’re not. You need to know if your sister just murdered your best friend with a breakfast utensil.
47
RYKER
“I need you to do something for me.”
Faith’s voice cut through the morning quiet, sharp enough to make me pause mid-reach for my coffee. She stood at the stainless steel stove, spatula in hand, the whisk now abandoned on the counter beside her, shoulders curved inward, like she was bracing for impact.
The penthouse kitchen smelled like butter and eggs, with the underlying notes of expensive coffee beans in the machine behind me. Steam rose from the pan, fogging the range hood’s gleaming surface.
Something about her tone, too steady, too controlled, made my chest tighten.
“Okay,” I said carefully.
She didn’t turn around. Just kept pushing scrambled eggs around the pan, the scrape of metal on metal filling the silence. The morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows caught the tension in her spine, highlighting every rigid line. Beyond the glass, the city sprawled twenty stories below, but the soundproofing made it feel like we were the only two people in the world.
Last night, I’d held her as she crumbled. Held her throughrestless sleep, plagued by nightmares that had her thrashing and crying out. After a few hours, she finally fell asleep. I thought we’d weathered the worst of it, but seeing her this morning, I could see that the demons had won.
“Faith.”
“If things don’t go the way we want them to …” She trailed off, and the spatula trembled in her grip. A piece of egg fell onto the burner with a soft hiss.
My fingers gripped my mug until my knuckles went white. “Don’t.”
“Ryker—”
“No.” I set my mug down harder than necessary on the marble countertop. “We’re not having this conversation.”
She spun around then, eyes blazing. “Yes, we are. You need to hear me out.”
I crossed my arms, every muscle in my body going rigid. “I don’t need to hear contingency plans for something that’s not going to happen.”
“You don’t get to decide that.” Her knuckles whitened around the spatula handle. “I need help with two things. I know it’s a lot to ask, but?—”
