Page 70 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

There are no laws in this brunch. No gods. Just cheekbones, caffeine, and an increasingly sexual team-building exercise so healthy it makes my nipples feel weird.

And somewhere deep in my chest, something unclenches. Like maybe this isn’t the worst kind of crazy to belong to.

We’ve finally settled into a weirdly comforting rhythm, part murder support group, part logistical polycule summit, when Carson checks his watch and leans forward like he’s about to ruin dessert. “She’s meeting Walter tonight.”

The name hits like a crack in glass.

I squint, like that’ll make him make more sense. “Who the hell is Walter?”

Edgar goes very still. His cup lowers, precise and deliberate. “Yes,” he says softly. “I’d like to know that as well.”

Carson’s gaze flicks between us like he’s been carrying this too long. “Her ex-husband,” he says. “The one who started it all.”

Silence floods the table again, but this time, it’s different. Less awkward, more… like a storm just blinked into the horizon.

“She doesn’t need backup,” Carson adds. “But I’m going. We should be there. At least me and Edgar. Just in case.”

My pulse kicks. “Just in case what?”

No one answers. Not really.

Carson’s already rising. Edgar follows, coat sliding over his shoulders like the closing of a curtain. Neither rushes. It’s more like the gravity just changed.

I sit there, pastry forgotten, heart in my throat, trying to process the fact that tonight, the woman I love might commit the most personal murder of her life.

And the two men who also love her are not stopping her.

They’re bearing witness.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jennifer

The spot’s quiet. Like nature knows I’m up to something and is politely fucking off so it doesn’t have to testify later.

I’m standing on this dirt patch in the middle of a godforsaken hiking trail like I’m about to propose to the forest. Which I might. If it agrees to help me hide a body. There’s a nice dip in the soil by the thornbushes, nature’s shallow grave starter kit. I’ve been pacing around it like it’s a crime scene re-enactment hosted by someone having a very public breakdown.

This is it. I should’ve brought trail mix. Or whiskey. Or a therapist. Instead, I brought six weapons and a protein bar. One of those choices was correct.

I check my phone again for the sixteenth time in ten minutes. Nothing from Carson. No “on my way,” no cryptic skull emoji, no sexy brooding selfie next to his cruiser with the caption “Murder me, mommy.”

I’ve been stood up. On Murder Day.

“Goddammit,” I say, yanking a blade out of my boot just to check if it still feels right. It doesn’t. It’s too stabby. Not enough fuck you.

I tuck it back and try the little gun from Carson I hid in my bra. Hmm. Very climactic looking. Sleek. Cold. Feels like it belongs in a dramatic revenge montage scored by Billie Eilish. But maybe too clean? I don’t want Walter to just go quietly into that good night. I want him to trip into it. Land on his face. Possibly be insulted on the way down.

I rummage in my bag for the meat tenderizer. It’s decorative. Chrome finished. Engraved with little flowers. Practically poetic.I give it a few test swings. It makes a very satisfying thunk against my palm.

“Hi Walter,” I coo to the trees, pacing like a lunatic in a bad one-woman play. “Remember me? The woman you tried to break? Surprise, bitch, it didn’t take.”

I spin. Rehearse the motion again. Almost trip over a root. Mutter obscenities at a squirrel. I’m losing it. Fully off the leash.

I check the phone again.

Still nothing.

Cool. Love that for me. Just a girl, on a murder cliff, with abandonment issues and an unregistered weapon collection.

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