“Oh, wow, I almost believed you with that tone.”

“They’ve erected a statue in your honor.”

“It’s the least they could do.”

“That’s what I said. Hey, can I borrow your bulletin board?”

“Sure, it’s behind my desk. What for?”

I crawled across her bed to her desk and stuck my hand down the gap to retrieve it. “Brougham’s coming around soon. I need equipment.”

Ainsley, who was well informed about my Brougham experiences following yesterday’s meeting, snorted. “What kind? Pepper spray?”

“Just the board will do. Thank you!”

“Hey, can you guys make sure you keep it down?” Ainsley called out as I retreated with her bulletin board. “I’m gonna be recording my voice-over in thirty.”

“No problem.”

Back in my room, I propped the bulletin board up on my bed, then arranged some pages of blank paper, some Sharpies, and my trusty new notebook on my desk. Right as I was finishing up, there was a knock at the front door.

“You play nice now, Darc. No murdering!” Ainsley called out from her room as I went to answer it.

I ignored her.

When the door swung open to reveal Brougham, my first thought was how out of place he looked on our eclectic front porch. I’d expected him to come straight here after dryland training, but he’d obviously gone home to clean up first. His silhouette was neat and preppy, skinny chinos under a pressed, bottle-green shirt with the sleeves carefully folded to his elbows. His hair had been swept into a side part and styled in waves so fluffy and careless they had to have been placed and held with a ton of product. Beneath his spotless, polished brown boots, weathered, chipped floorboards creaked and splintered. Then, surrounding him, a mess of garden gnomes and flowerpots with plants spilling out in every direction, dirt scattered on the boards from the last time Mom attempted to garden. Above his head, tinkling wind chimes and hanging planters overflowing with flowers, some thriving, some dry and withered. Behind him, our porch railing with its layers and layers of Christmas lights, left in place so we didn’t have to put them up all over again every year.

Brougham’s arms were folded tightly over his chest, his glower even more pronounced than usual. “Well, you look like a summer’s day,” I deadpanned, and he moved forward to enter without waiting for a proper invitation. I jumped aside to get out of his way. “Sure, absolutely, make yourself at home.”

“Ta.” He stepped into my living room, glanced around with an unreadable expression, then nodded at me. “Shall we?”

Like he owned the damn house. “We’re in my bedroom, upstairs.”