Page 89 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

The moment Eddie picked up, I didn’t even wait for a hello. “Barris isn’t there, he’s not with Maddox or in the crowd. That bastard’s off the grid, and I don’t like it.”

Eddie’s voice came in, low and steady. “I’ve got my eyes on everyone here, and so does Ira.”

I stiffened. “Ira?”

“For a man of advanced age, he’s freakishly agile,” Eddie replied dryly. “Apparently, he can wield a soup can like a medieval broadsword and isn’t afraid to use it. I watched him scare the crap out of a janitor earlier because he was whistling suspiciously.”

Despite the tension curling tighter in my chest, I let out a brief huff of something that almost passed for a laugh. “Yeah, well, I’d take more comfort in that if it wasn’t Gabby’s life still on the line.”

Eddie paused for a moment, then said quietly, “She’s safe, Webb. I’m here, and if Barris tries something, he’s not leaving with all his teeth.”

I knew I could trust him, but being forewarned was a gift. “Watch the press conference and get to know the players. If he shows up—anywhere, even near the perimeter—I want to know. Instantly.”

“Copy that.”

I hung up and turned back toward the controlled chaos unfolding in the living room. The TV still blared in the background, now showing Gladys surrounded by a swarm of law enforcement and reporters. She was still talking, still commanding the room with her unshakable presence. Meanwhile, Malcolm, Benny, Remy, and Matty worked in a flurry, firing off data packets and evidence to her email like they were loading artillery—each file a carefully aimed shot in a war of truth.

Jackson had his phone to his ear while Sasha paced, her hand curled into a fist, the other squeezing her stress ball, shaped like a screaming chicken.

“Okay,” I said loud enough to cut through the noise. “It’s time to stop watching the screen. Maddox is cornered, so he's down." They all looked up. “But Barris is a ghost. A pissed-off ghost with access to weapons, men, and no leash. If we don’t find him before he moves, Gabby’s still a target.”

Everyone’s expression shifted at once—focus sharpening, posture straightening as a silent signal had passed through the room. I saw the fire ignite in Jesse’s eyes again while that familiar, lethal calm settled over Marcus’s face. Elijah and Jackson didn’t waste a second. They were already moving, phones in hand, making calls and setting things in motion.

“Find him,” I clipped, pacing behind the couch. “I don’t care where he’s hiding—dig under every rock, every warehouse, every burned-out shell company Maddox ever touched. We’ve taken the crown from one snake, but Barris is still out there with fangs.”

Malcolm cracked his knuckles and smirked. “I love it when you go full monologue, cowboy.”

Benny grinned. “Let’s bag ourselves a psychopath.”

The room snapped back into motion, keys clacking, calls being made, names being checked. We weren’t just chasing ghosts anymore, we were hunting Clayton Barris.

And this time, I wasn’t going to miss.

Chapter 28

Gabby

This time, I woke slowly—not jolted by pain or dragged out of a nightmare, but because something had shifted. It was subtle, barely enough to register, but just off enough to stir me. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, and when I turned toward the chair beside my bed, I found it empty.

I shifted my eyes to the side and saw Ira was halfway out the door. For a man who joked about his age and carried Werther’s in every pocket, he was moving quietly. Too quietly. Like he didn’t want to be noticed. I watched him slip into the hallway—quick, nimble, and purposeful.

I tried to sit up, but the pain hit me the moment I moved—a sharp, overwhelming wave that radiated from my ribs, head, wrist, and leg all at once. My body felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to it and then tried to stitch me back together with fishing line and duct tape. But the adrenaline overrode all of it.

Something was happening.

“Ira—” I rasped, but he was gone.

I tried to move again, forcing my uncooperative body into motion. My IV tugged, and monitors beeped as I managed to twist to the side and get one leg partway over the edge of the bed before a voice stopped me.

“You need to lie back.”

A nurse stepped into the room—mid-forties, with neatly pressed scrubs and hair pinned back so tightly it looked like it could deflect bullets. She wasn’t exactly rude, but there was no warmth in her tone, no unnecessary small talk. Without a word, she moved to the monitor, pressed a few buttons, and then gave me a quick once-over, all business. Obviously, she'd never heard the expression about laughter being the best medicine.

“Where did he go?” I asked, breath catching as I fought the urge to collapse back onto the pillows.

She didn’t even blink. “Technically, you’re not supposed to have visitors in the ICU outside of certain hours. But we made an exception for your grandad because Gladys is one of our biggest donors.” She said it with the kind of resigned professionalism that told me she’d lost more than a few battles to that woman’s influence. “Do you want some pain meds?” she added, already checking the chart.

“Just Tylenol and ibuprofen.”

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