REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 73: Chapter 73
You are reading REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS, Chapter 73: Chapter 73. Read more chapters of REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS.
Few hours later
The rain had finally decided to slow by mid-afternoon, which meant it was now drizzling with dramatic flair—like the mountain itself was trying to set the tone for a mystery thriller.
The kids were still out in the mud, shouting, sword-fighting with sticks, and building what suspiciously looked like a shrine to Elsa out of rocks and wet pinecones. The moms, soaked but surviving, were sipping instant 3-in-1 coffee that had been made with lukewarm water and raw maternal willpower.
And then…
“MJ’s dog is missing,” Mylene said, suddenly sitting up from her chair, a damp marshmallow still stuck to her sleeve.
“Which dog?” I asked. “The real one or the stuffed one she pretends is alive?”
“The real one. Cookie. The little brown mop with legs.”
We paused. Cookie had been last seen trying to fight a squirrel half her size and barking at a rock for ten minutes.
Jhing Jhing stood, slapping a wet towel over her shoulder like it was a cape. “Let’s go. That dog owes me five hours of sleep.”
Mylene grabbed a flashlight, despite it being daytime. “I’m too pretty to be a search party but here we are.”
I stayed back to supervise the mud-hyped children and reheat another pot of hotdog spaghetti. Classic red Filipino sauce, of course, because this picnic might be chaotic, but we had standards.
The two set off behind the tents, their boots squelching through the wet leaves and pine needles, calling out in unison:
“COOKIEEEE! You half-blind drama queen, where are you!”
They wandered off the edge of the campsite and down a thin deer trail toward a mossy outcrop lined with tangled tree roots. Cookie’s barks could be heard faintly ahead—low, aggressive, and alarmed.
“There she is!” Jhing Jhing shouted, pointing to a blur of fur digging wildly near a twisted pine tree at the base of a sloping hill.
But Cookie wasn’t barking at a squirrel this time.
She was clawing at the dirt—growling, frantic, focused. The ground was soft and dark, the way earth gets when it’s been soaked too long. The dog’s tiny paws flung soil and wet leaves aside until her claws hit something… hard.
Clink.
“Wait,” Mylene said, crouching, her flashlight now absolutely justified. “That’s… not a rock.”
Jhing Jhing knelt beside her, using a stick to scrape more dirt away. Something pale and curved was half-buried in the earth. They both leaned closer, expecting maybe a buried can, or some leftover camping gear from years ago.
Instead, they uncovered… a bone.
Not the small, dainty kind a deer might drop.
No. This one was long. Human. With the faint echo of a boot heel still attached to one end.
“OH HELL NO,” Jhing Jhing said, falling backwards into a bush.
“What in the Irish CSI is this?” Mylene whispered, eyes wide.
The dog barked again, now circling the hole, tail wagging like she’d just unearthed buried treasure. Or a mafia hit.
They stared at each other.
“Do we call the cops?” Jhing Jhing asked.
“And say what? ‘Hi, we’re three unlicensed moms doing a picnic on a hill and found a corpse between marshmallows and a missing dog’?”
“Valid.”
And just as they were about to cover it back with leaves and retreat, Mylene paused.
“Do you hear that?”
Crunch.
A twig snapped in the woods nearby. Not from a squirrel. Not from wind. No, this was the deliberate kind of snap, like someone heavy…watching…waiting.
Both women froze. And then a low voice drifted in through the trees, cold and deliberate.
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
They turned. A shadowed figure stood at the edge of the tree line, about ten meters away. Wrapped in a long coat, face hidden under a dripping hood, hands tucked inside the sleeves. But they weren’t looking at Mylene or Jhing.
They were looking past them.
Toward our campsite. Toward our kids.
Something in the air shifted.
Mylene reached for her phone.
Jhing Jhing held Cookie like a weapon. And back at camp, my spine snapped upright like a wire being pulled tight.
At the campsite, I don’t know how, or why—but I felt it. Like lightning in my blood.
Someone was watching the children. With intent.
I dropped my mug, the coffee splashing into the mud like a shot fired. I ran barefoot—because heels were so 20 minutes ago—ripping through the soft earth, pushing past tangled roots and startled toddlers yelling, “MOMMY’S GOING WILD!”
I found them just as the figure vanished back into the trees, like smoke swallowed by rain.
Mylene pointed, still pale. “They were watching the kids. Just…standing there. Not moving. Not blinking.”
“I’m gonna gut them,” I hissed, scanning the woods, hands clenched.
And just like that, the Black Widow was back.
Not the mysterious billionaire.
Not the picnic-planning mom.
Not the gym-skipping woman who hoarded hotdog buns and missed spa appointments.
No. I was the protector now. Of seven chaos-born children. Of two fierce women who once fought over the last cinnamon roll. Of a dog who dug up secrets.
“Joe,” I barked into my phone as I stomped back up the hill. “We found a body. Someone’s watching us. And I want surveillance drones here in five.”
Joe: “…do I even ask?”
“No. Just scan the woods, and get me a name.”
That night, we didn't sleep much. The rain picked up again. The kids eventually passed out from sugar, laughter, and mild hypothermia. And the three of us sat around the last dying embers of the campfire with wet marshmallows, a shotgun disguised as a thermos, and a mystery buried beneath our feet.
There was something under Wren’s Hilltop. Something—or someone—that wanted to stay hidden. But unfortunately for them… They messed with the wrong picnic.
It happened fast.
Too fast.
The moment I received the ping from Joe—“Unmarked movement. Five heat signatures. 300 meters east. Not local. Gear: tactical.” —my instincts took over. A mother’s or an assassin’s gut never lies, and neither does a past soaked in blood and survival.
I grabbed the nearest kid (mine, thankfully), tossed two flashlights into a duffel bag, yanked a tarp over the campfire, and shouted, “Plan C! Go! Go! Go!”
The kids froze for half a second—long enough to register the tone of panic in my voice—then scrambled like a swarm of caffeinated ducklings. Seven little bodies in pink raincoats and mud-slick boots bolted across the field like it was sports day at war school.
Jhing Jhing and Mylene didn’t ask questions. They knew that voice. It was the same one I used when we almost set the apartment microwave on fire with tin foil, or when the daycare accidentally swapped our kids with a group of Irish sheep (long story).
“Grab everything you can carry!” I barked, pulling MJ’s dog Cookie into my coat and kicking aside a foldable table. “North slope. Toward the ravine. Hide in the pines!”
We ran through the mountain trail, winding past tree roots and sharp rocks, the gigantic van abandoned behind like broken dreams of marshmallow s’mores. Rain pelted our backs. The sky grumbled. And the woods whispered secrets in the wind.
I heard the footsteps behind us—not ours. Heavier. Coordinated.
I had five minutes, maybe less.
The north slope was steep and treacherous. Moss-covered rocks jutted out of the ground like crooked teeth. The pine trees grew thicker the deeper you went, their roots tangled like the hair of an angry witch. Mist clung to the ground like a ghost’s sigh, and patches of slippery shale made every step a gamble.
But this was my terrain.
I’d camped here. Hunted here. Fought here, once, years ago.
“Keep the kids close,” I whispered. “Stay low. Quiet. No more cartoons, no more singing Frozen, or I swear I’ll feed someone to a crow.”
We found a narrow ridge near the river bend—a sharp drop on one side, thick pine growth on the other. The perfect place for an ambush.
I gave Cookie to MJ, kissed Aliya, Jaya and Maya’s forehead, and handed her a plastic whistle that looked like a rainbow banana. “Blow this only if someone grabs you. If you do it just for fun, I’ll cancel your birthday.”
Then I got to work.
I pulled a thin, black wire from my belt—one of those fancy tech-threads Joe gave me after I babysat his cousin’s ferret and he owed me. I set up a tripwire across the trail just behind a cluster of thick ferns. Beyond that, I laid out broken branches sharpened to points and positioned a foldable cooking pot filled with boiling oil over a balanced log.
“Seriously?” Jhing Jhing whispered. “Boiling oil? Are we in a medieval movie?”
“Shhh. This is art.”
I took a breath. “Mylene, Jhing—get the kids into that rocky overhang. Stay there. I’ll draw them in.”
“By yourself?” Mylene hissed.
I smirked, pulling my hoodie tight. “Don’t worry. I skipped leg day, not knife day.”
The rain had finally decided to slow by mid-afternoon, which meant it was now drizzling with dramatic flair—like the mountain itself was trying to set the tone for a mystery thriller.
The kids were still out in the mud, shouting, sword-fighting with sticks, and building what suspiciously looked like a shrine to Elsa out of rocks and wet pinecones. The moms, soaked but surviving, were sipping instant 3-in-1 coffee that had been made with lukewarm water and raw maternal willpower.
And then…
“MJ’s dog is missing,” Mylene said, suddenly sitting up from her chair, a damp marshmallow still stuck to her sleeve.
“Which dog?” I asked. “The real one or the stuffed one she pretends is alive?”
“The real one. Cookie. The little brown mop with legs.”
We paused. Cookie had been last seen trying to fight a squirrel half her size and barking at a rock for ten minutes.
Jhing Jhing stood, slapping a wet towel over her shoulder like it was a cape. “Let’s go. That dog owes me five hours of sleep.”
Mylene grabbed a flashlight, despite it being daytime. “I’m too pretty to be a search party but here we are.”
I stayed back to supervise the mud-hyped children and reheat another pot of hotdog spaghetti. Classic red Filipino sauce, of course, because this picnic might be chaotic, but we had standards.
The two set off behind the tents, their boots squelching through the wet leaves and pine needles, calling out in unison:
“COOKIEEEE! You half-blind drama queen, where are you!”
They wandered off the edge of the campsite and down a thin deer trail toward a mossy outcrop lined with tangled tree roots. Cookie’s barks could be heard faintly ahead—low, aggressive, and alarmed.
“There she is!” Jhing Jhing shouted, pointing to a blur of fur digging wildly near a twisted pine tree at the base of a sloping hill.
But Cookie wasn’t barking at a squirrel this time.
She was clawing at the dirt—growling, frantic, focused. The ground was soft and dark, the way earth gets when it’s been soaked too long. The dog’s tiny paws flung soil and wet leaves aside until her claws hit something… hard.
Clink.
“Wait,” Mylene said, crouching, her flashlight now absolutely justified. “That’s… not a rock.”
Jhing Jhing knelt beside her, using a stick to scrape more dirt away. Something pale and curved was half-buried in the earth. They both leaned closer, expecting maybe a buried can, or some leftover camping gear from years ago.
Instead, they uncovered… a bone.
Not the small, dainty kind a deer might drop.
No. This one was long. Human. With the faint echo of a boot heel still attached to one end.
“OH HELL NO,” Jhing Jhing said, falling backwards into a bush.
“What in the Irish CSI is this?” Mylene whispered, eyes wide.
The dog barked again, now circling the hole, tail wagging like she’d just unearthed buried treasure. Or a mafia hit.
They stared at each other.
“Do we call the cops?” Jhing Jhing asked.
“And say what? ‘Hi, we’re three unlicensed moms doing a picnic on a hill and found a corpse between marshmallows and a missing dog’?”
“Valid.”
And just as they were about to cover it back with leaves and retreat, Mylene paused.
“Do you hear that?”
Crunch.
A twig snapped in the woods nearby. Not from a squirrel. Not from wind. No, this was the deliberate kind of snap, like someone heavy…watching…waiting.
Both women froze. And then a low voice drifted in through the trees, cold and deliberate.
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
They turned. A shadowed figure stood at the edge of the tree line, about ten meters away. Wrapped in a long coat, face hidden under a dripping hood, hands tucked inside the sleeves. But they weren’t looking at Mylene or Jhing.
They were looking past them.
Toward our campsite. Toward our kids.
Something in the air shifted.
Mylene reached for her phone.
Jhing Jhing held Cookie like a weapon. And back at camp, my spine snapped upright like a wire being pulled tight.
At the campsite, I don’t know how, or why—but I felt it. Like lightning in my blood.
Someone was watching the children. With intent.
I dropped my mug, the coffee splashing into the mud like a shot fired. I ran barefoot—because heels were so 20 minutes ago—ripping through the soft earth, pushing past tangled roots and startled toddlers yelling, “MOMMY’S GOING WILD!”
I found them just as the figure vanished back into the trees, like smoke swallowed by rain.
Mylene pointed, still pale. “They were watching the kids. Just…standing there. Not moving. Not blinking.”
“I’m gonna gut them,” I hissed, scanning the woods, hands clenched.
And just like that, the Black Widow was back.
Not the mysterious billionaire.
Not the picnic-planning mom.
Not the gym-skipping woman who hoarded hotdog buns and missed spa appointments.
No. I was the protector now. Of seven chaos-born children. Of two fierce women who once fought over the last cinnamon roll. Of a dog who dug up secrets.
“Joe,” I barked into my phone as I stomped back up the hill. “We found a body. Someone’s watching us. And I want surveillance drones here in five.”
Joe: “…do I even ask?”
“No. Just scan the woods, and get me a name.”
That night, we didn't sleep much. The rain picked up again. The kids eventually passed out from sugar, laughter, and mild hypothermia. And the three of us sat around the last dying embers of the campfire with wet marshmallows, a shotgun disguised as a thermos, and a mystery buried beneath our feet.
There was something under Wren’s Hilltop. Something—or someone—that wanted to stay hidden. But unfortunately for them… They messed with the wrong picnic.
It happened fast.
Too fast.
The moment I received the ping from Joe—“Unmarked movement. Five heat signatures. 300 meters east. Not local. Gear: tactical.” —my instincts took over. A mother’s or an assassin’s gut never lies, and neither does a past soaked in blood and survival.
I grabbed the nearest kid (mine, thankfully), tossed two flashlights into a duffel bag, yanked a tarp over the campfire, and shouted, “Plan C! Go! Go! Go!”
The kids froze for half a second—long enough to register the tone of panic in my voice—then scrambled like a swarm of caffeinated ducklings. Seven little bodies in pink raincoats and mud-slick boots bolted across the field like it was sports day at war school.
Jhing Jhing and Mylene didn’t ask questions. They knew that voice. It was the same one I used when we almost set the apartment microwave on fire with tin foil, or when the daycare accidentally swapped our kids with a group of Irish sheep (long story).
“Grab everything you can carry!” I barked, pulling MJ’s dog Cookie into my coat and kicking aside a foldable table. “North slope. Toward the ravine. Hide in the pines!”
We ran through the mountain trail, winding past tree roots and sharp rocks, the gigantic van abandoned behind like broken dreams of marshmallow s’mores. Rain pelted our backs. The sky grumbled. And the woods whispered secrets in the wind.
I heard the footsteps behind us—not ours. Heavier. Coordinated.
I had five minutes, maybe less.
The north slope was steep and treacherous. Moss-covered rocks jutted out of the ground like crooked teeth. The pine trees grew thicker the deeper you went, their roots tangled like the hair of an angry witch. Mist clung to the ground like a ghost’s sigh, and patches of slippery shale made every step a gamble.
But this was my terrain.
I’d camped here. Hunted here. Fought here, once, years ago.
“Keep the kids close,” I whispered. “Stay low. Quiet. No more cartoons, no more singing Frozen, or I swear I’ll feed someone to a crow.”
We found a narrow ridge near the river bend—a sharp drop on one side, thick pine growth on the other. The perfect place for an ambush.
I gave Cookie to MJ, kissed Aliya, Jaya and Maya’s forehead, and handed her a plastic whistle that looked like a rainbow banana. “Blow this only if someone grabs you. If you do it just for fun, I’ll cancel your birthday.”
Then I got to work.
I pulled a thin, black wire from my belt—one of those fancy tech-threads Joe gave me after I babysat his cousin’s ferret and he owed me. I set up a tripwire across the trail just behind a cluster of thick ferns. Beyond that, I laid out broken branches sharpened to points and positioned a foldable cooking pot filled with boiling oil over a balanced log.
“Seriously?” Jhing Jhing whispered. “Boiling oil? Are we in a medieval movie?”
“Shhh. This is art.”
I took a breath. “Mylene, Jhing—get the kids into that rocky overhang. Stay there. I’ll draw them in.”
“By yourself?” Mylene hissed.
I smirked, pulling my hoodie tight. “Don’t worry. I skipped leg day, not knife day.”
End of REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS Chapter 73. Continue reading Chapter 74 or return to REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS book page.