Page 59 of Made for Mayhem

“Don’t look at me like that, Cyclops!” I yelled as I flew past him. “I’m grieving!”

By the time I reached the bend in the drive, Cluck Norris gave one last triumphant crow before strutting off.

“What the fuck,” I muttered, then bent forward, hands braced on my knees as laughter ripped out of me in sharp, breathless bursts. It wasn’t even that funny. My heart was still hammering, and the sound that came out of me shook—unsteady, like if I let it go on too long, it might turn into something else entirely.

The papers were crumpled in my fist, their edges biting into my palm. Coffee dripped down my arm. I squeezed my eyes shut and let the cool air hit my flushed face, pulling myself back together.

When I finally straightened up, the farmhouse was right there. Silent. Waiting.

No matter how badly I wanted to put a hit out on that damn rooster, he’d done it.

He’d gotten me here.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to look at the house—not the way I remembered it, but the way it actually was. Now that I knew there was a laundry list of problems hiding behind those rainbow flowerpots, they were harder to ignore.

The porch didn’t just lean in a charming, old farmhouse way anymore. It slouched, as if it was contemplating the benefits of giving up and sitting down on the lawn.

The siding looked like it had lost a fight with too many winters. A couple of boards looked warped, and a suspicious patch near the steps sagged in a way I was pretty sure wood wasn’t supposed to. One section of gutter hung at a strange angle, dripping onto what might’ve once been a flowerbed but was now a weed jungle.

I pressed my lips together and blew out a shaky breath.

“I have no idea what I’m looking at,” I told the porch. “But I’m pretty sure it’s bad.”

The house stayed quiet, just as judgy as the damn llama.

“Cool. Love this for me.” I glanced at the sagging gutter again. “Definitely gonna need a miracle.”

With a sigh, I climbed the porch steps, testing each one before trusting it with my full weight. They creaked in protest, but none of them gave way, which felt like a win.

I reached for the doorknob and twisted it. Nothing.

“Dammit,” I muttered, resting my forehead against the cool wood. “The key is in my car, but that’s on the other side of the chickens, and no fucking way am I going back through the gauntlet again.”

I stepped back and scanned the porch. “Tell me you hid a spare key for me, Vi.”

The doormat? Too obvious.

Under the frog? I crouched, tipped it forward, and found nothing but a spider the size of a dime. I yelped and dropped it.

“Nope. Nope. Absolutely not.”

Standing again, I surveyed the yard, trying to channel my sister’s brand of practical chaos. “Okay… where would you have hidden a key…”

My gaze landed on a faded metal mailbox still clinging to its post, the lid askew. “Old-school. I respect it.” I opened it—junk mail and another spiderweb that had me batting at imaginary bugs I was sure were crawling up my arms. No key.

I kept moving along the porch, talking to no one and everyone. “Remember when you hid a spare key in a sock inside Dad’s shed? You thought you were such a genius. ‘Who’s going to look for a key in a sock?’ you said. Yeah—because a random sock in a shed wasn’t suspicious at all.”

My laugh came out watery, half a giggle and half a sniff. “Come on, Violet. Help me out here. I was the sneaky one, so your choice would’ve been pretty⁠—”

Something cracked and familiar caught my eye near the porch—a ceramic planter with purple flowers painted all over it, half-buried in weeds and half-forgotten. I dropped to my knees and brushed away the dirt, revealing a glint of metal.

“Ha!” I held it up to the empty yard. “A flowerpot. What a rookie move.”

The chickens clucked somewhere behind me, unimpressed.

“Don’t start,” I warned as I fitted the key into the lock. “You’ve already inflicted enough emotional damage for one morning.”

The key turned with a solid click. I swallowed, hand trembling just a little, then pushed the door open—ready or not.