The feathered cutie lands on Midge’s head and his talons do their best to rake at her eyes.
And somehow—impossibly—it looks as if she feels it.
“My eyes! My eyes!” Midge screams so loudthat at least a dozen birds just flew out from the branch above her. She begins to howl and screech as her hands fly to her face, and I take a gasping breath because of it.
I don’t question it. I use the moment to flip her, slamming her face-first into the dirt. Percy lands on her back and pins her down.
“I’ve got her!” I gasp, shoving my knee into Midge’s spine as I grab ahold of both of her wrists.
Footsteps pound through the woods behind us.
“EVERYONE FREEZE!”
Noah bursts through the trees, weapon drawn, his breathing erratic.
Everett is right behind him, suit jacket abandoned somewhere, his tie loosened, looking like a judge who’s about to hand down the harshest sentence of his career.
“She did it! She admitted to killing Vivienneandher own husband,” I pant.
“Lemon?” Everett thunders as he reaches down to help me up, but I shake my head.
“Not yet,” I say.
I get close to Midge’s ear, my voice dropping to a whisper only she can hear.
“What’s the secret ingredient to your banana pudding?” I all but demand.
Midge goes still.
Then she lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob.
“Fine,” she says, her voice muffled by dirt and leaves. “I’m probably going away for a long time. Someone may as well enjoy it.”
I lean closer, and she whispers the magic words I’ve longed to hear, and once I hear them, I give a little gasp, and my eyes go wide.
“So that’s it!”
Everett scoops me up like I weigh nothing, turns me around,and kisses me hard enough to make my head spin in the best possible way.
Behind us, Noah hauls Midge to her feet, reading her rights in that calm, authoritative voice that makes criminals everywhere realize they’re absolutely toast.
“Midge Thornbury, you’re under arrest for the murders of Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke and Bernard Thornbury...”
“Splendid!” Percy lands on my shoulder, feathers glowing brilliant teal. “Absolutely riveting. Like watching custard curdle in real time—you know it’s coming, but it’s still magnificent when it happens. Let’s do it again.”
“Absolutely not,” I mutter against Everett’s lips.
He grins. “Happy Mother’s Day, Lemon.”
“It’s the best one ever,” I say.
And somewhere in the garden behind us, the Daughters of Honey Hollow are about to have the most dramatic Mother’s Day in the organization’s history.
But right now, in this moment, with spring blooming all around us and a killer finally caught?
Everything is perfect.
LOTTIE
