Page 45 of DFF: Delicate Freakin’ Flower (Family Ties #5)

Gabby

M y head throbbed like a punk rock concert was happening inside my skull. Even blinking too fast made me feel like someone had taken a paint mixer to my brain. My concussion was still absolutely a fan of ruining my life.

And paired with the fractured body, healing stitches, and the ache that lived in my bones like a squatter refusing to leave?

Yeah, I was a human wreck. A mostly horizontal, snack-slinging wreck.

Which was how I found myself planted on the porch in a ratty old rocking chair beside Ira, wrapped in a throw blanket like a retired pirate, feeding a gang of raccoons who clearly thought I was their queen.

Wieners, cheesy puffs, and burnt toast—the raccoon diet of champions. And they were fighting over it like they were auditioning for a National Geographic special called Trash Bandit Brawl.

Ira sipped his coffee, shaking his head. “You really think they understand you?”

“They do,” I replied firmly, tossing a puff to the one I’d decided was named Ricky. “They respond to tone, and this one knows when I’m mad.”

“You sound mad a lot.” Ira hid his smile behind the mug.

“I think I've earned it.”

He nodded. “That's fair.”

We fell into a comfortable silence, watching Ricky attempt to bodycheck a fatter raccoon off a crust of toast. That toast, for the record, had been an attempt at breakfast, which I'd cooked in that skillet.

“Don’t touch the skillet,” I warned him again. “It’s been seasoned.”

He gave me a sage nod. “That’s where the best food comes from.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell Webb,” I huffed. “I clean it with soap and water when he’s not looking.”

Ira choked on his coffee. “You’re trying to die, aren’t you?”

“Only a little, and some of it isn't by choice.”

Then, casually, he asked, “So why are you still using the outhouse?”

I blinked at him. “Because it’s the only toilet, Ira. You think I’m doing it for the romance of it?”

“But there’s a bathroom inside.”

My mouth actually fell open. “What?”

“Nice one, too,” he said absent-mindedly, taking another sip. “Looks like it was ripped out of a catalog. All of that marble and candles and plants you’re not supposed to touch. It's the only room in the whole place that doesn’t feel like it might collapse if you sneeze near it.”

I was staring at him now, squinting like I’d just been told the moon was made of brisket. “Where's this luxury of which you speak?”

“Attached to the main bedroom. First door on the left at the top of the stairs.”

I just stared at him as I processed this treachery. “That absolute bastard,” I hissed. “That’s Webb’s parents’ room, so I never even went in there because I thought it was sacred. You don’t pee in the holy shrine of someone else’s parents!”

Ira raised an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t going to sleep in their bed,” I growled. “Just pee in their toilet. He could’ve told me!”

There was a moment of silence, then Ira let out a full-body wheeze and damn near slid out of his chair.

“It’s not funny!” I snapped, heat rushing to my face. “I’ve been showering in the yard like I’m prepping for Survivor: Bayou Edition. You know how many frogs I’ve startled while trying to squat behind a bush?”

Ira was cackling now, wheezing so hard his eyes were streaming.

“And the worst part?” I added, flinging a cheesy puff at the porch rail. “I still can’t use it. I can’t get up those stupid stairs with this cast on my leg. I’m stuck Brokeback Shitting in the Woods!”

Ira started coughing so violently he had to put his coffee down. He clutched his chest, gasping, and I suddenly panicked.

“Oh God, is it your heart? Are you dying?” Panic surged through my voice as I hovered, unsure whether to help or just scream.

“I can drag you into the truck, but I’ll probably dislocate something—yours or mine.

Oh my God, I did a CPR course when I was fourteen!

” I frantically looked around, feeling helpless.

“If I could get a signal, I’d pull up a YouTube video to double-check.

Please don’t die on me, Ira, I’m not emotionally stable enough for this. ”

I gestured wildly at the mess of horticulture in front of us. “I mean, it’s just a toilet. That’s not worth dying over, right?”

Ira raised a shaky hand, still laughing as he wheezed, “No... I’m fine... just...oh my God, you said ‘Brokeback Shitting in the Woods’…”

I sat back with my arms crossed and cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Around us, the raccoons gathered again—completely unbothered by the chaos as they munched on toast with casual delight, like they were watching a comedy special unfold just for them.

Eventually, Ira caught his breath and wiped his eyes. “That man really got you,” he chuckled, grinning like a devil. “You were played, girl.”

I glared at the stairs in righteous fury. “He is so lucky I can’t climb those stairs right now,” I muttered. “Because if I could, I’d use that bathroom, then rip the damn sink out and throw it at him the next time I see him.”

Ira chuckled. “You still might need that CPR refresher, but I’ll cheer you on.”

Golden light stretched across the clearing as the sun dipped lower in the sky, inching toward the horizon. Full and content, the raccoons had wandered off to wherever raccoons go when mischief turns to drowsiness.

With the day’s heat finally easing, a gentler warmth settled in—no longer stifling but something close to comfortable.

I leaned my head back against the chair and winced as my skull pulsed like it was hosting a very low-budget drum circle.

The rest of my body wasn’t much better—just a rotating cast of minor aches and complaints, like a group of grumpy roommates arguing over whose turn it was to do the dishes.

I shifted to glance at Ira, who was watching the sky like it owed him answers.

“When do you think he’ll catch up with me?”

He turned his head, blinking himself out of his thoughts. “Who?”

“Clayton Barris. When do you think he’ll find me?”

Ira frowned, but his voice was steady. “Hopefully never.”

I let out a small, humorless breath. “Very optimistic.”

He nodded. “Maybe he’ll try and get through the bayou and end up swallowed by it. That happens, you know. People go missing out here all the time.”

I smiled faintly. “So, like, he heads out all confident, and then chomp, the swamp eats him? All they find is a single chewed-up shoe on the bank?”

“Preferably an ugly one.”

“God,” I whispered. “That’d be poetic.” Silence settled for a moment. “Why would someone keep coming after me?” I asked eventually. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to find a hole in the ground somewhere and disappear? Go to Mexico, buy a shack, and sell mangoes. Just... not risk prison?”

Ira looked thoughtful, sipping what had to be his sixth cup of coffee. “Because you’re the witness, the one who saw the worst of it. And you know the things they don’t want known.”

“I sent in everything I found,” I pointed out. “All the files, the evidence, and the names.”

“Sure,” he shrugged. “But when this goes to trial—and it will—they’re gonna need more than anonymous folders. They’re going to want your words and your face, along with every gritty, uncomfortable, damning detail delivered in person.”

I leaned my head back again and closed my eyes. “God, it used to be such a fun job. Honestly, I enjoyed it. The hours were decent, there was no one breathing down my neck, and every now and then, I got to wear a disguise—which was always a good time. And now, everything's changed.”

I raised my hand and waved it dramatically. “Now I’m a raccoon queen with two broken bones and one hell of a headache.”

Ira chuckled softly.

“Seriously,” I groaned. “Who even kidnaps people anymore? It’s 2025. We have email, veiled threats on TikTok, anonymous DMs, and creepy deepfake videos uploaded to shady forums. What happened to that kind of intimidation? They're classics.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t pack the same punch. Killing someone or terrifying them in person—that’s personal. It’s theatre.”

“Well, it’s lame,” I snapped. “Not to mention unoriginal, overdone, and honestly just tired at this point, and wildly inconvenient.”

“That it is,” Ira agreed. “Still, gotta say, I’m grateful for Gladys.”

A flicker of warmth spread through my chest at the mention of her. “Yeah, me too.”

“Can’t imagine where I’d be without her.”

I smirked. “Do you two keep in touch while you’re apart?”

He sipped slowly.

“What?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Did she post a loving video for you on Facebook? Maybe dancing to a love song in her kitchen? Something with sparkly filters?”

Ira gave me a flat look.

My eyes widened with excitement. “Do you have social media? Oh my God, give me your handles so I can follow you both! Do you post reels? Are you on TikTok? Tell me you’re on TikTok.”

He just shook his head slowly. “Have you ever heard of sarcasm, Gabriella?”

Deadpan, I drawled, “No, never heard of it. Is that an app?”

He burst out laughing again, loud and unrestrained, the kind of laugh that seemed to shake loose from deep in his chest. I found myself smiling, too, despite the dull ache still pulsing at the side of my head as I rubbed it gently.

The pain hadn’t gone anywhere—but something else had settled in alongside it.

Not quite relief. Maybe just the flicker of something lighter.

Hope, maybe. Or, at the very least, a momentary distraction—just enough to carry me through the rest of the day.

The woods were never truly quiet. Even when nothing moved, they breathed. The soft creak of trees shifting in the breeze, the occasional croak of something wet and judgmental lurking nearby, the rustle of leaves that could be wind…or something else. And tonight, the woods were breathing heavier.

I was sipping on lukewarm coffee when the rustling started—low and deliberate, not like the flutter of a squirrel or the stuttering panic of a bird. This was bigger and slower.