Page 17 of Flint’s Strike

Grace looks at me. Just for a second. “That she’s not sure she’s allowed to take up space that way.”

I don’t have a response for that. Not one I know how to put into words.

“You should come to a class,” Grace says, turning back to the counter and swiping a rag over the leftover flour.

“I can’t draw either.”

“Mm.” She hums the word, and I recognize the tone. It’s the one she uses when she thinks someone’s wrong, but doesn’t want to push. “That’s what everyone says.”

“Grace.”

“Just a suggestion.” She pulls a fresh cloth over the second pan. “It’s open to anyone. No experience necessary. No—” she pauses again, shorter this time, “—judgment.”

I pick up the wine and move to the fridge, rearranging a few bottles of beer so there’s room for the Chardonnay. “I’ll think about it.”

She hums again. I ignore it.

“I’m picking the movie at girls’ night this week,” I say. “I want that on record right now.”

Grace scowls at me. “The Brutalist was supposed to be a masterpiece.”

“The Brutalist was three hours and thirty-five minutes long and I had to drive home afterward.”

“It won an Academy Award.”

“So do a lot of movies. This week, we’re going with something ridiculously funny or with enough pretty people no one cares about the dialogue. It’s decided. You had your chance, and you did not choose wisely.”

Grace laughs, and even after three months home, with more of her memories coming back every week, the act seems to surprise her. “As long as there’s queso, you, Emi, and Isabel… I’ll watch anything.”

The back deck was made for afternoons like this one—the lake catching the sun, with a gentle breeze taking the edge off the heat of the day. Belle tears across the yard chasing her tennis ball. And the scent of burgers makes my mouth water.

AJ’s at the grill, with Nate next to him, “supervising.” I can hear them from here, their voices carrying the tone men use when they’re arguing about something that doesn’t matter.

“You’re gonna burn ’em,” Nate says.

“I’ve never burned a burger in my life.”

Jasper sidles up to them, beer in hand. “Have you forgotten the camping trip Mom took us on when we were fifteen?”

AJ stares at his twin, eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t my fault, asshole. You’re the idjit who disturbed the hornet’s nest and sent us runnin’ for the lake.”

“And the Fourth of July the year after you and Grace first moved into this place?” Jasper shakes his head. “What happened then?”

“Mom brought vegan patties. I don’t know shit about cookin’ whatever the fuck is in those.”

Nate arches a brow. “No offense, Chief, but in the interest of public safety, maybe Connor should take over?”

As if his ears were burning from inside the house, the former FBI agent pushes through the door carrying a big bowl of pasta salad. “Smells damn good out here.”

The men—mostly Jasper and AJ—keep bickering back and forth, Nate and Connor watching over the grill like they can somehow turn back time if the beef edges a shade past medium.

Emi passes me a fresh bottle of beer, ice cold, and I twist the cap off with a stifled wince. My hands still hurt sometimes. Prying my way out of that torture shed the cult’s Prophet called the Box, armed with nothing a rusty metal bar and rabid determination, left me with dozens of cuts to my palms and fingers. A couple of the deeper ones hit nerves. And while it only took me six weeks to get range certified again, that was fueled by pure spite. Anything that requires more strength than pulling the trigger of my service weapon is iffy at best, but I’ve gotten used to pretending otherwise.

I take a long pull on the Shiner. This is about as perfect of an afternoon as I could want, but for a split second, a thought cuts through the peace.

I’m so damn tired.

Before I can figure out what to do with that, Belle barks at something close to the water, and Nate drops into the chair next to me. “Parker, tell AJ this burger is practically charcoal.”