REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 85: Chapter 85

To My Son, Leon—
If you are reading this, then it means I have failed to protect what I was sworn to guard. You always saw more than others—you were born with it. The red skies. The girl. The shadows. That place exists.
And the figure you painted… She is real.
I pray she never returns. But if she does—
Use the key. Go to the lake. You’ll know which one.
Behind the painting, in the vault I built for you, you will find what’s needed.
Forgive me for the lies.
Forgive me for the life I took.
Love,
Dad
I dropped the letter. The room went still.
The girl?
She?
Who is she?
Aliya whispered, “So… are we in a real mystery now?”
“Yes,” I said quietly.
Maya muttered, “I liked it better when our biggest problem was expired yogurt.”
I looked down at the letter, the photo, the key—and suddenly, everything clicked into place.
The red lipstick.
The courier box.
The picture of my childhood painting.
Someone wanted me to remember. And now… someone wanted me to act. Whatever my father tried to hide—it wasn’t buried deep enough. And whatever he was guarding? It was waking up.
The next day—Monday.
The morning air smelled like roasted beans and old pavement. I met Joe at our usual coffee shop—The Busy Bean, the kind of place that served existential dread with a side of almond milk. The barista, a lanky guy named River, wore eyeliner and knew everyone’s name but refused to learn how to spell them. He handed me a chai latte with a wink and “Here you go, Mayah.”
Joe was already seated at the back corner, sipping black coffee like it had wronged him in a past life. I dropped into the seat across from him, slumping with exhaustion.
I slid into the booth across from Joe, who already had his coffee and that detective notebook of his—the one with so many creases it looked like it had survived two marriages and a tornado. “I’m going to say something weird,” I started.
Joe didn’t even flinch. “You always do.”
I told him everything—about the box, the key, the old photograph, the letter in my father’s handwriting. I skipped over the heart palpitations and just gave him the facts. He listened like a sponge in a trench coat, nodding occasionally, but mostly staying quiet.
"We need to dig deeper," I told him, sliding my phone across the table with a photo of the lipstick box and painting. "Something's off. That painting—my favorite one from when I was very young—it disappeared. And now it shows up with no name, no sender, just a punch of red lipstick and childhood trauma."
Joe frowned, examining the photo. "You think it’s Dorothy?"
"I don’t know. It could be. Or someone who knew the painting was important. Or maybe—someone who knows who I really am."
He arched an eyebrow. "You mean—"
I cut him off. "Don’t say it. Just… dig deeper. Quietly. Please."
When I finished, he sat back and whistled low. “You sure this wasn’t just… a prank? From someone who knows your past?”
“No one knows that painting,” I said. “No one except me and—” I cut myself off. “And now you.”
He leaned forward. “You want me to dig?”
“Yes. I need to know who sent that box. And why now.”
Joe gave a single nod. “Alright. But you owe me a donut.”
“Two, if you find something creepy.”
He grinned.
After that caffeine-fueled emotional storm, I dragged myself and the girls to yoga class.
Now, this wasn’t just any yoga class. It was the kind held in a renovated warehouse that now smelled like lavender, coconut oil, and denial. There were potted plants named after Greek goddesses, and a juice bar that charged extra if you made eye contact.
The yoga studio smelled like peppermint, sweat, and hope. It was on the third floor of a renovated heritage building, tucked above a vegan deli and next to a tattoo parlor that played lo-fi hip hop all day. The elevator was broken (again), so we had to climb three flights of stairs. Aliya claimed it was part of the warm-up. Maya disagreed vocally.
Our instructor, Bodhi, was a man with a man bun, a mysterious tattoo of a squid on his ankle, and the calming voice of someone who had never paid taxes. He made us breathe in through our third eyes and out through our past trauma.
“Feel your inner light,” he whispered.
“My inner light just pulled a hamstring,” Mylene groaned, wobbling in warrior pose. She was groaning on the floor next to me, muttering about her soldier husband’s return. "He’s been home three days. He hasn’t done a single dish. All he does is drink root beer and order meat lovers pizza. I get it, war zone—but this is a laundry zone. I’m drowning in socks."
"Give him time," I whispered between downward dogs. "He went from combat boots to baby bottles. That messes with a man’s soul."
“I think my left lung is stuck in downward dog,” Jhing Jhing added.
I tried to focus. Stretch. Breathe. But my mind kept spinning back to the key. The vault. My father’s words.
Halfway through corpse pose, Mylene blurted out, “I don't like his beard at all.”
We all turned to look at her.
“And let me guess—he expects the house to clean itself and beer to fall from the sky?” I asked.
“Exactly,” she huffed. “Last time he got mad I didn’t stock his favorite junk food. Said he fought for freedom and should be free to not clean.”
“That’s not freedom. That’s fungus,” I said. “He lived in a war tent, of course his attitude’s different. Give him time. Or give him chores.”
Jhing Jhing, meanwhile, had a different kind of battlefield. "My new van has a personality. I swear. It moans when I reverse, like a ghost with joint pain. And don’t get me started on my new oven toaster. It beeped at me twice this morning and then exploded my cinnamon rolls. I think it's possessed."
We laughed. The kind of laugh that felt like untying knots.
I was just starting to feel the zen settle in when Maya—my ever-blabbermouth daughter—announced, mid-cobra pose, in her usual unfiltered fashion, piped up, “Tell them about the box, Mom.”
I froze.
“What box?” Mylene asked, adjusting her mat.
Everyone turned. Of course, I told them about the box but lied about me being targeted or that I am also Leon Darrow.
I sighed. "Yes. It's... possibly from Dorothy. Or one of her drama-loving associates."
Mylene perked up. "It has to be Dorothy. Or maybe her mafia friend. You know she’s connected, right? Girl had a bodyguard who used to be a cage fighter in Serbia."
"That was a rumor," I reminded her.
"Still counts," Mylene insisted. "And look. We can help. I’m tired of laundry. I need a mission."
Jhing Jhing sat up straighter, sweat-glowing and inspired. "What we need is recon. We activate the Gossip Mom Network. Dads never know anything, but moms—moms hear everything. PTA meetings are just spy cells with bake sales."
Mylene nodded enthusiastically. "I’ll talk to my cousin who works for that aesthetician Dorothy sees. She might spill. Or at least drop a name or a strange transaction."
“Was she even back from the mental ins—”
“She was back. My cousin’s friend who works there gossiped about how she bribed the director.” Mylene rolled her eyes like she was attacked by ‘I’m-Cumming-Attitude.’”
"That's good to hear. Because I," Jhing Jhing said dramatically, flipping her towel over her shoulder like it was a cape, "will infiltrate the Elite Gossiper Club. It’s invitation only, but my lashes are strong enough to get me in. I’ll wear my gold heels. The ones that scream betrayal and brunch."
I laughed, then stopped laughing. They were serious. Deadly serious.
"Fine," I said. "Spy away. But no hacking. And no glitter bombs. Again."
By Tuesday, we had unofficially declared war—with lattes in one hand and leggings in the other.
Mylene and Jhing Jhing were absolutely thriving in their newly appointed roles as Investigators-in-Chief. The two of them hadn’t been this energized since the last Parent Council election went nuclear over snack duties.
Mylene, of course, insisted we call the operation “Mission Lipstick.”