Page 80 of Flint’s Strike

I always bake one of my mom’s recipes for girls’ night. Not that anyone but Grace knows they’re my mom’s recipes. Kolaches, cobblers, her famous pecan pie. In a year of Wednesdays, I’ve only shown up with a store-bought dessert once, and that was after a brutal chest cold that almost turned into pneumonia.

Emi’s in the kitchen with a cocktail shaker in one hand and a rocks glass rimmed with spicy salt in the other. “There you are! Get yourself some queso and chips. You want spicy or extra spicy for your margarita?”

“How is that even a question?” I slide the cheesecake onto the island. Isabel, who’s rummaging in a drawer for napkins, stares at it, then at me.

“Extra queso and now cheesecake? From H-E-B?” She reaches over and lays her hand on my arm. “You okay, hon?”

My shoulders hike halfway up to my ears. “Fine,” I manage. “Caught a big case. The fire in the Mueller district?” I glance at Emi. Her eyes narrow, her head tilting half an inch as she passes me a margarita. “Nate keeps gettin’ to the station at fuck-no thirty in the morning. Makes me look lazy for showin’ up at eight.”

Isabel puts on her “mom” face. The one she uses to tease secrets out of her nineteen-year-old daughter who’s smarter than all of us combined.

“You think we’re gonna buy that line of malarky?” she asks.

“Malarky?” I start laughing so hard, a sip of extra spicy margarita threatens to come out my nose. “Who…says…malarky?” I wheeze.

“Parker’s right.” Emi wraps her arm around Isabel’s shoulders. “Veronica’s at college, probably swearin’ a blue streak every damn day. You can cut loose once a week if you want.”

Her cheeks on fire, Isabel drags a chip through the bowl of queso. “I spent years tellin’ that girl to watch her mouth. I can say malarky in my own damn house if I want to. Now, can we get back to whatever’s got Parker lookin’ like she just lost her favorite stuffed animal? Because it’s definitely not long hours on an emotional case. We all know what that looks like.”

I glance over at Grace. She’s fine. She’s been fine—well, as fine as anyone can be after what she went through—for three months. But no one’s forgotten what it cost her.

Grace rolls her eyes, grabs the bowl of queso, and takes it into the living room with Belle trotting along behind her. “All y’all need to get comfortable. I don’t think this is a kitchen island conversation.”

We follow, because though Grace is the newest of our group, she’s also the heart of it.

She sinks down against one arm of the couch, and I take a seat next to her, the cushions welcoming me like a warm hug. If my sofa was this comfortable, I’d never want to leave.

Emi tucks her legs under her in the recliner, and Isabel sits crosslegged on the floor next to the coffee table.

I solve problems for other people. That’s what investigative work is, at its heart. Solving problems. Talking about my own issues? I’d rather let Nate drive me all the way to San Diego than tell my closest friends how I fucked up this morning.

I take another healthy sip of my margarita, letting the muddled jalapeño send sparks along my tongue. “I don’t know where to start. Or what happened. One minute we were talking about having breakfast in bed and the next⁠—”

“Hold up.” Isabel sets her glass down, leans forward, and gives me another “mom” glare. “You. Parker Elmore. Were in bed with someone? When did this happen?”

Fire crawls up my cheeks. I lick some of the salt off the rim of the glass and make a face. “This morning.”

A plop of queso lands on Emi’s thigh. Her mouth forms a perfect O. “Breaking news ain’t got nothin’ on Parker. Just how long has this been goin’ on? And who’s the guy? Or…gal?”

And people wonder why I don’t open up more often.

I cover my face with one hand, the other holding the cold margarita glass to my forehead. “This was a bad idea.” The words are muffled, almost whiny, and I hate how pathetic I sound.

Grace curls her fingers around my wrist and gently tugs my hand away. “You always…” Her lips twist, brows drawing together, and she tries to shape the word again, but fails. Eventually, she brings her hand to her ear, thumb touching the lobe. Extending her first two fingers, she curls them twice in rapid succession.

Listen.

“You do,” Emi says. “All the silly fights Jasper and I had when we first moved in together? Remember that ratty old recliner he wanted to keep? And the twenty-year-old dresser he bought at a yard sale for five dollars? You helped me pick my battles. That dresser looks amazing with a fresh coat of paint. And our new recliner is almost as comfortable as this one.”

Isabel picks up her drink again, takes a healthy swallow, and shakes her head. “Veronica called you when she decided to get an apartment with her friends next term and didn’t know how to tell me and Connor.”

“What does listening have to do with me fucking up the first date I’ve had in almost five years?” I ask, still hiding behind the margarita glass.

“You slept with a guy. On the first date.” Emi fans herself. “Lord, have mercy. Who is he? How’d you meet him? We need details before we get to the actual problem.”

Isabel plucks the TV remote from the center of the coffee table and tosses it into a basket of throw blankets in the corner. “The Life and Times of the World’s First Sentient Plant can wait for next week. Talk, Parker.”

I look to Grace, who gives me an encouraging nod. “Let us help.”