The decorations were the source of our latest vicious battle, after I told her to burn the black and gold monstrosities she bought from the dollar store. When the cashier refused to give her a refund, she sent me a Venmo request for twenty-seven dollars. I sent her fifty dollars and three fire emojis, just to piss her off.

My decorations, a dozen classy chalkboard signs and glass bottle garlands I plan to fill with fresh flowers and string with miles of twinkle lights around every tree in Dad’s backyard, are downstairs in the basement we just walked through, in one of those big boxes gathering dust.

“Tell her that she was supposed to order the decorations. Not me.”

One brow disappears behind the mask. “I don’t know. I don’t think she’s going to like that.”

He’s not wrong. When Ruby gets that message, she’s going to lose her mind. But hopefully, once she stops screaming at the phone, once she calms down long enough to think, she’ll realize something’s not right.

“Let me ask you this, what if it was Baxter and Beatrix acting this way? Cussing at each other over text message, egging each other on just for spite? You only get one family, you know. All it takes is for one of you to switch things up and say you’re sorry, to change your behavior. My mama used to always tell me, you can’t change your sister, but you can change the way you respond to her.”

His sudden wisdom takes me by surprise, and though I don’t necessarily disagree, this is no time for a lecture. Not when it’s coming from an armed man in a ski mask, and definitely not when I’m clutching a screwdriver behind my back, silently debating the most vulnerable spot to sink it in.

His neck.

If I’m lucky the metal tip will slice right through his jugular.

I edge closer. “Maybe, but that doesn’t change the fact that we agreed she would do the decorations, and that I would handle the catering.”

He shakes his head. “You’re awfully stubborn. Has anybody ever told you that?”

I hold my breath. Wait.

The moment turns sharp, measured.

The instant his attention drops to the phone, one word whispers through my brain.

Now.

I body-slam him from the side, sending him stumbling toward the stairs. The phone flies out of his hand and goes spinning down the hall, bouncing off the floorboards like a pinball. His other hand, the one holding the gun, flails for balance.

Look where you’re aiming, Cam is always coaching the Bees. Never close your eyes to the ball. My ball is that spot at the base of his neck, a velvety patch just above his collar where the skin is marshmallow soft. I glue my gaze there, order my hand to strike there.