Even James is starting to look suspicious. He walks into rooms and forgets why he went in. His keys vanish and turn up in bizarre places; inside the freezer, once in his boot. The radio in his truck keeps crackling with static, no matter the station. He calls Nash “Kevin” twice, then mutters something about “early-onset cognitive decline” under his breath.
Only East holds it together. Until he shows up to the gym in one red sock and one pink fuzzy slipper.
He stares down at his feet like they’ve turned against him. “I have no clue how this happened.”
“I do,” Ruby whispers behind him, as she sits a tray of cupcakes on the table. Then walks away before he can turn around.
We call an emergency meeting. Which basically means everyone’s pacing, glaring, and pretending they haven’t been haunted, sabotaged, or psychologically wrecked by glitter, clown dolls, and possibly ghost children.
The rest of the crew’s scattered across the room. Knox is pacing like he’s ready to burn the garage down. Nash is staring at a vent with murderous intent. East is rubbing his temples and muttering about salt circles. And James, calm as ever, sits blinking far too often, like his brain’s buffering.
“We’re being targeted,” Knox says, voice low and full of fire. “This is an op. A psychological one. Someone is trying to break us from the inside.”
James scratches his beard. “I thought maybe it was early signs of dementia, but the milk in my fridge? Someone replaced it with mayonnaise. Mayonnaise, boys.”
“There are cameras in my room,” Nash mutters.
Everyone turns. He doesn’t elaborate.
“Someone broke into my apartment,” East adds, deadpan. “All my cereal boxes now say Emotional Damage Flakes.”
I’m quiet. Because I already know. Candace. The signs are there. The look in her eye. The carefully contained chaos. And Maggie has been unusually chipper. Ruby too quiet. Frankie suspiciously helpful. Darla humming. Sloane baking.
Too much harmony. Too much peace before war.
“This is club business,” James says finally. “Whoever’s behind it is good. Too good. We’re all slipping.”
“I think it’s Frankie,” Knox offers.
“She’s got that serial killer precision,” Nash mutters.
I clear my throat. “No.” Everyone stops.
I don’t raise my voice. Don’t move. Just look at the cupcake tray. Then at the frosting. A very specific swirled pattern. Which matches the pink glitter handprint on my mirror.
“It’s all of them,” I say. “They’re working together.” Silence.
James lets out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“They want us to crack,” East mutters.
“Already did,” Knox replies. “I almost punched a clown doll.”
I let out a slow breath, then lean forward. “We retaliate.”
But no one moves. Not right away. The room shifts. Not tense. Not angry. Just quiet.
Nash leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. “Feels weird, doesn’t it?”
“What does?” Knox asks.
“This. All of it.” He waves his hand around. The chaos, the memory of tiny handprints and glitter and psychological warfare. “They finally let loose.”
No one says anything. Because Nash is right.
For once, the girls aren’t walking around guarded. They aren’t looking over their shoulders, holding tension in their jaws, bracing for disappointment. They’re laughing. Whispering. Plotting. Alive. Healing.
James rubs a hand over his beard. “After everything that’s happened… maybe they need this.”
