Page 122 of Flint’s Strike

“I’m allowed to be proud of her,” Isabel mutters.

“You’ve read that essay out loud four times.” Emi sets the knife down, reaches for a lime, and points it at our friend. “You do it again, we’re gonna stage an intervention.”

Isabel huffs. “It was a good essay.”

“It was a great essay.” Emi squeezes a tablespoon of juice into the guacamole. “After I had a little chat with her.”

Isabel’s mouth twitches. “You gave her notes.”

“I saved her from writing three pages about why journalism matters without mentioning a single journalist.”

I laugh in the middle of pouring myself a glass of wine, and almost spill it all over the counter. No matter what else is going on in my life, being with these women is easy. Even when my mind is still on burned buildings and a man carrying so much guilt, it’s eating him alive.

“Wait,” I say. “What application?”

Pride has Isabel sitting up a little straighter. “Veronica applied for an internship this fall. A crime intensive with Channel Seven in Chicago. And she got it.”

“Chicago?” I repeat. “That’s huge.”

Isabel’s smile gets bigger, but there’s something underneath it that isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. A little bit of panic.

“She wants Emi’s job,” Grace says, setting a stack of napkins on the coffee table, then sinking down onto the couch.

“Why does it have to be in Chicago?” Isabel’s voice takes on the tone she only uses when we talk about Veronica growing up. “I won’t see her for three months.”

“She’s nineteen,” Emi says. “And you have FaceTime.”

“I know how old my daughter is,” Isabel retorts. “But she’s never lived further than twenty minutes away from me, and dammit…I’m not ready for this.”

I take Isabel by the shoulders, turning her on the stool until she’s forced to meet my gaze. “Honey, that girl is tougher than all of us put together. I’ve taught her enough self-defense to take down a man twice her size. Connor’s got the bruises to prove it.”

A reluctant smile tugs at Isabel’s mouth, but she still looks like she wants to argue.

Emi dumps the last of the chiles into the salsa, gives it a stir, and carries the bowl into the living room. “Bring the chips, Parker. It’s time to get comfortable.”

Grace hooks her arm through Isabel’s. “You’re supposed to be proud of her, hon. Even if you are scared at the same time.”

“Her essay,” Emi says, “was the best writing I’ve seen in a long damn time. And she hasn’t even had her heart properly broken yet. Wait till she has a bad breakup. She’ll win a Pulitzer out of spite.”

We all laugh, but Isabel only manages half a smile before reaching for her wine.

My phone buzzes against my hip, and I glance down to see a text from Nate.

Reliability ratings for vintage Chevy Impalas are through the roof.

I roll my eyes, set the phone face down on my thigh, and reach over to give Isabel’s arm a squeeze. “She’s gonna be fine.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean I can’t be a wreck about it.”

With nods of understanding, we settle into the easy rhythm of the evening. Chips get passed around. Grace regales Emi with the various benefits of adding more chiles to the guacamole. We all know Emi will eventually relent and up the heat because Grace can’t stomach bland food. Isabel keeps pretending she isn’t already planning every possible reason to visit Chicago.

As Grace scrolls through a list of movies for us to watch, my phone buzzes again.

I barely manage to stifle my groan.

It’s the second message from Judge Nesbitt’s assistant since I left the station. The judge has been locked in her chambers with opposing counsel for three hours now, and they’re still arguing.

“We’re watching The Life and Times of the World’s First Sentient Plant, right?” Grace asks.