Frankie's shoulders lift. "Basically."
Candace sharpens. Maggie stills. I don't say anything. Frankie's tone makes it clear this is all she'll say.
Ruby recovers. "Fine. Arden can handle strays. We are handling shenanigans."
Frankie gives her a look that's half gratitude, half warning. "Correct."
The doorbell buzzes. Frankie pushes off the wall and crosses to the door. Arden is there, framed by hall light, belonging more to shadows than rooms. He steps inside, gaze sweeping faces, settling on Frankie.
"Hey," she murmurs, and it's the first time tonight her tone sounds as though it belongs to work.
Arden murmurs something I don't catch. His eyes flick toward the back of the house. Frankie nods once. He walks away without another word. The hallway door closes behind him with a soft click that feels as though a line has been drawn.
Frankie watches it shut, turns back to us. Her face is smooth. Too smooth.
Ruby makes a face. "Well. That was mysterious."
"Maybe the stray is a raccoon," Darla says, grabbing pretzels.
Candace narrows her eyes. "Frankie doesn't hide raccoons."
Ruby snorts. "Maybe she should. It would add to her brand."
Frankie drops back onto her spot against the wall, sparkling water in hand, as though nothing happened. But her weight shifts toward the hallway every few seconds. It's subtle. I only catch it because I'm watching.
Ruby drags us back. Flyers, announcements, weaponized balloons. But my attention keeps snagging on the quiet beyond the hall.
I stand to refill my water, crossing toward the kitchen, when the sound comes. Low. Muffled. It rises from somewhere beneath us. Not pipes or settling floorboards. Deeper. A guttural noise that scrapes against my ears, raw as nails dragged across the inside of a drum. Deeper than a growl. Almost human. Close enough to both that my body goes still, glass frozen halfway to my lips.
The sound comes again, frustrated, pained, raw. Every instinct I have as a medic fires at once. Someone's hurt.
I turn toward the back stairs. "Frankie, is someone—"
She's already moving. Frankie's across the room in three strides, hand catching my elbow in a firm grip. Her fingers press just hard enough to deliver the message without words.
"It's handled."
"But I heard—"
"I know." Her eyes are steady, unreadable, locked on mine with an intensity that makes the room shrink. "It's handled."
The room has gone quiet. Ruby is mid-sentence, mouth open. Candace's gaze cuts between us, sharp and assessing. Darla's hand is stilled on her stomach. Maggie's brownie forgotten.
I search Frankie's face. "If someone's hurt, I can—"
"They're not hurt." Her voice closes off. "They're adjusting."
"Adjusting to what?"
Her jaw works. For a second, I think she might answer. Arden appears in the doorway silently, as though he surfaced from the dark rather than walked through it. His eyes meet Frankie's. A look passes between them that doesn't need language.
Frankie crosses to him. He says something low enough that I only catch the shape of it. She nods sharply once and presses something into his hand. A bottle, maybe. Or a jar. I can't tell from here.
Arden turns back down the hallway without another word. His footsteps fade to nothing.
I'm staring at the empty doorway, the dark corridor where the sound came from. "Frankie—"
"It's not your problem." Her hand squeezes my elbow once before releasing. Her voice softens. Barely. Just enough. "When it's time for you to know, you'll know."
