Page 69 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

I have to reboot my entire social understanding in real-time. “So… we’re pivoting from emotional support to espionage now?”

“We can multitask,” Edgar says dryly. “It’s called balance.”

Carson leans forward, fingers steepled like this is a tactical briefing and not brunch. “Cookie’s bakery doesn’t meet code on refrigeration. The health department might find that interesting.”

I came here to cry into carbs and now I’m part of a covert operation run by a homicide detective and a man who smells like poetic damnation.

“Cookie also tampered with Miss Gentry’s pie last year,” I add helpfully. “I don’t have evidence, but she smirked. Like, one of those TV villain smirks. Very smug. Very sabotage.”

Edgar hums thoughtfully. “Would poisoning be off the table? Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically,” Carson says, “yes.”

I hold up a hand. “I learned how to make buttercream roses. For morale. And because Jennifer said my piping technique was ‘better than expected,’ which I’m pretty sure was a compliment.”

They both blink at me.

“What?” I shrug. “We all bring something to the table. You bring corruption. Edgar brings death. I bring frosted flowers and a wholesome can-do attitude.”

“You’re the emotional center of this triangle,” Edgar says, almost fond.

Carson grunts. “More like the buffer so we don’t kill each other.”

I grin, because this gooey sex casserole is actually baking, and I might be the topping. Somehow, against all logic and social norms, we’ve formed an alliance. A very sexy, deeply dysfunctional support group for one lethal, brilliant woman and her upcoming dessert duel from hell.

“She deserves to win,” I say.

“She deserves peace,” Carson adds.

“She deserves to bury Cookie in fondant,” Edgar concludes, raising his cup.

We all clink our drinks, coffee, coffee, chocolate milk. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect. And we’re in.

We’ve moved past sabotage logistics and straight into “How Do We Emotionally Support a Murder Goddess 101” when I say it. I don’t mean to say it. It just kind of… slips out. Like a rogue frosting bag exploding in my hands.

“I just want her to be happy,” I say, fiddling with my straw. “Even if that means… like… all of us?”

Carson stills mid-sip. Edgar looks up over his espresso like I just offered to be embalmed recreationally.

Panic seizes my spine. “I mean, not like that, unless it is like that, in which case I’m not saying no, I just…”

Carson cuts in, cool and unbothered. “I want my own time with her. But after? I’m open.”

I momentarily forget how conversation works and just mouth-breathe at him. “Open to what, exactly?” I finally manage.

Edgar shrugs, unbothered and espresso-deep, like this is a wine tasting and not the beginning of our group descent into romantic madness. “As long as someone remembers to bring lube and no one dies, I see no issues.”

I wheeze. “You guys are so calm about this?!”

Edgar turns those cheekbones on me. “Would you prefer panic?”

“Honestly? A little would be comforting,” I say.

Carson glances toward Edgar. “Just don’t hog her. I know you’re into theatrics.”

Edgar sighs, pure drama. “Then hurry up and kiss her already. Some of us are waiting for the group round.”

Everything from the waist up tries to stay cool. Everything below it says ‘fuck that.’

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