Page 44 of The Worst Possible Plan

Dave leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “From here?”

I looked up before I could stop myself.

Dave’s grin widened another inch.

Damn. “I didn’t answer because there isn’t⁠—”

Mike held up a hand before I could finish. “Notice he didn’t say no that time.”

Dylan pointed toward me. “Oh, this is fun.” He leaned back with a grin. “Finally. Something besides Dave’s fishing stories.”

I rubbed a hand across my jaw. “You boys done?” I knew they weren’t. I asked anyway. Sometimes optimism slipped through the cracks.

“Not even close,” Dave said without missing a beat.

Curt smiled down at his cards. “When did this start?”

He asked it with the same calm patience that probably made him a good principal.

“It didn’t.”

Mike dealt another card, not taking his eyes off me. “Then why’d you fold ace-king?”

I looked down at my cards. I’d forgotten I still had them. That annoyed me more than the interrogation. I’d spent twenty years reading suspects during interviews, noticing every twitch, hesitation, and change in breathing. Meanwhile, four idiots armed with pizza and beer had me forgetting I was in the middle of a poker hand.

“I’ve had a long couple of days,” I told them.

Dave took a slow sip of beer. “Festival?”

“Festival.”

Mike nodded knowingly. “We heard about the donkey.”

Dylan laughed. “My wife said there was an alpaca.”

I nodded. “There were two.”

Curt nearly dropped his cards. “There were two?” His eyebrows disappeared somewhere near his hairline. “How do you accidentally end up with two alpacas?”

“Don’t ask.”

Dave leaned forward, his elbows landing on the table. “We’re asking.”

I looked around the table. Four grown men, all staring at me like they had nowhere else to be. I should’ve known poker night wasn’t going to stay about poker.

Before anyone could ask another question, the side door opened.

“Who’s ready for dessert?”

Every head turned.

Mike’s wife Carol came in carrying a homemade blueberry pie in one hand and a stack of paper plates in the other. Flour dusted one sleeve of her sweatshirt, and her chestnut hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. She looked like she’d been baking.

She also looked like she’d heard enough of the conversation to know exactly what was going on.

That wasn’t unusual. Carol missed very little.

She set the pie on the table. “Well, don’t stop on my account.”