Page 37 of Falcon’s Forever

Sarah stops halfway across the room. Before she has to ask for more, I turn the screen toward her.

“They saw it,” I explain. “Nobody approached, and it left again.”

Her shoulders loosen a little more with each detail. “Was Falcon there?”

“Yes,” I answer immediately.

The response comes too easily. Sarah glances at me, and I recognize that look before the comment behind it can escape.

“Don’t,” I warn her.

“I didn’t say anything.” She lifts her covered hands in surrender.

I lower the phone and give her a pointed look. “Everyone in this place has started saying that.”

“It’s depressingly true,” Sarah replies as she crosses to the cupboard and reaches for a mug.

Something is different today. Yesterday, when we saw the alert, we had questions but at least we knew what the club knew as it happened. Every woman who wanted updates had them, there was no waiting to be told what to feel about it after the fact. Fear's still here, of course it is, it isn't going to vanish overnight, but fear with information is a lot easier to carry than fear built entirely out of imagination.

Footsteps come down the stairs. Emily’s first, then Maya and finally Lena. Emily looks tired but steadier than yesterday. Maya walks into the kitchen carrying a notebook I recognise immediately.

I point at it. “Is that mine?”

“Yes,” she replies without a hint of guilt.

“Why do you have it?” I ask.

“We’re making improvements.” Maya holds the notebook up as if that explains everything.

I glance from her to the familiar cover. “Improvements to what?”

“The lockdown plan,” she announces, moving the notebook from one hand to the other.

Lena follows her into the kitchen, looking exhausted. “She woke us up at seven.”

“I was inspired,” Maya protests.

“You were obnoxious,” Lena corrects her.

Maya waves away the distinction. “Same thing.”

I hold out my hand. Maya immediately hugs the notebook to her chest.

“You stole it,” I accuse.

“I borrowed it from the table,” she insists.

“Without asking,” I point out.

Maya lifts her chin. “It was a temporary redistribution of resources.”

I take the notebook from her anyway because I’m not losing this argument to a woman who once described a security threat as an opportunity for snacks.

When I open it, I find two pages of additional notes. Most of them are good.

One is not.

I tap the offending item with my finger. “Emergency chocolate?”