Page 8 of Scorched in Pelican Point
“I didn’t say that.” Another crash echoes behind her. “I said itloudlyand with enthusiasm. Which statistically increases the likelihood that I’ll believe it—and if I say it again while smiling, it might magically become true. That’s how disaster prep works, right?”
“Are you hurt?” I ask, my voice quieter now, but sharper too, cutting through her attempt at humor. I hear the tremor in her laughter and know it for what it is—a cover. A defense mechanism. My gut twists. "Because if you are, Daisy, I need you to stop pretending everything’s a picnic and tell me the truth."
“No, no! Just… prepping for Flossie. Or Floosy. Whatever her name is." Her voice pitches upward again, trying for chipper and landing somewhere around frantic. "I tried to tape up the back window—super responsible, right?—and then I stepped in a mop bucket while holding a cactus named Reginald. Reginald didn’t make it.”
There’s a shaky little laugh after that. The kind that’s meant to be light, but it cracks in the middle. “He was a cactus. Or a succulent? I was never really sure. But he was mine, and now he’s mulch.”
She pauses, and I can hear her trying to steady her breath, like she’s brushing away nerves with humor. But it’s there—tight in her throat, tucked under the edges of every word. The kind of panic that sounds like a smile if you’re not listening too closely.
I can picture her trying to tape up a window with one hand, clutching a lopsided potted plant in the other, balancing like she’s in a blooper reel. But her voice has that paper-thin cheer again, like if she doesn’t keep talking, the silence might crack open something raw.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask again, softer now. I don’t care about the plant. I care about her—the woman who names her foliage, who throws pastel parties in thunderstorms, who laughs even when she sounds a breath away from falling apart.
“I’m fine,” she insists, the words light and wobbly. “I mean, wet socks and cactus homicide aren’t ideal, but I’ve got snacks, I’ve got candles, andPeaches hasn’t eaten any of the couch yet. We’re doing great.”
I don’t believe her. Not entirely. But I don’t push—because sometimes letting someone hold on to their version of okay is the kindest thing you can do.
There’s a dramatic pause. I think she might be mourning the loss of the plant.
“Daisy,” I say slowly, “do you have hurricane supplies?”
“Yes! I made a list from the emergency preparedness guide on the Pelican Point town website, and then I immediately panicked and bought twenty-seven tealight candles, a family-size bag of pretzels, and a floaty shaped like a flamingo. I don’t even know why—I mean, it’s just a tropical storm, right? Do I really need all this stuff, or am I preparing for the apocalypse?”
I exhale slowly, shifting my weight. "You prep for a tropical storm like you prep for a hurricane because sometimes they change their minds halfway through. Tropical Storm Flossie might just dump a bunch of rain, or she might take a sharp left and decide she wants to uproot every damn hibiscus bush in Pelican Point. It's better to be over-prepared than caught with nothing but pretzels and candles."
There’s a pause on her end. "Right. Makes sense. Over-prepared it is for next time."
Her voice is lighter, but I can still hear the way her nerves rattle around beneath the humor, like pebbles in a tin can she’s desperately trying to muffle with a smile. I can practically picture her pacing the flower shop, hands fidgeting with a roll of floral tape, trying to pretend everything's okay while her mind spirals. It’s in the way she overexplains, the way she lingers too long on a joke, the way she laughs just a little too hard at her own cactus funeral. And it only makes me more sure—I need to get over there.
“Oh! Ialsohave C-sized batteries, seven bags of dog food, a mini flashlight, and a gallon of water,” she adds brightly, her voice lifting in that hopeful, overly cheerful way that makes me picture her standing in the middle of the shop with her hands on her hips, trying to look proud instead of panicked. “See? I’m notcompletelyuseless.”
“You’re not even partially useless,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Was that… a compliment, Lieutenant Ashe?” she asks, suspicious.
“No. It was a factual correction.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t believe me. “Well,anyway, Peaches and I are staying in. We’re building a pillow fort upstairs, and I’m putting on a face mask because if we’re going down, we’re going down glowing.”
I rub the back of my neck. I don't even know what that means. “Just make sure the windows are sealed. Don’t go outside. And if the power goes, call me. The cell towers will probably stay up. You got a generator?”
“Nope. But I have, like, a thousand scented candles. Does that count?” she says with a nervous laugh that doesn’t quite hit the mark. “Mostly ones with names like ‘Mountain Renewal’ and ‘Pumpkin Serenity,’ which feels ironic considering the chaos.”
“That all counts as fire hazards.”
“Oh, relax, Lieutenant Wet Blanket.”
“Daisy.” My voice drops, firm but quiet. “I’m serious. This isn’t just a rain shower or a gust of wind. I know you want to make it a joke, to keep things light—but this storm’s real, and I need you to be safe. You can laugh later. Right now, I need you to listen.”
That stops her. “Okay,” she says softly. “I will. I promise.”
We hang up, but I don’t feel better. If anything, I feel worse. That knot in my chest—that restless, uneasy twist I’ve been pretending is aboutPeaches—tightens.
And then it hits me. I never even asked about her. Not Daisy—Peaches. I asked if she had hurricane supplies, if she was hurt, if she had candles and batteries and enough snacks to last until the end of time—but I didn’t ask how she was really doing.
And that realization? It twists the knot tighter than ever. Smokey whines again, scratching at the door. “Yeah,” I mutter, reaching for my rain jacket, “me too. Let's go.”
