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She fucked with my shower products. So, I superglued coasters to every glass in the house.

She jump-scared me coming out of the gym. Three mornings later, after explicitly giving me permission to wake her if she overslept, I stood in the bedroom doorway with an air horn and watched her soul briefly evacuate her body. The clip currently has four million views. The comments overwhelmingly side with Jubilee.

Suck-ups.

Since she likes stealing my footage-bound treats while they’re still chilling, I eventually rigged the refrigerator with a harmless green theatrical-dye pack. She opened the pastry box and came away like a greedy little green goblin. Unfortunately for her, we still had four videos scheduled that afternoon. That one is five million views and counting.

Jubilee has also developed a habit of shedding clothes throughout the house like a very attractive tornado. Hoodie on the stairs. Skirt over the back of the sofa. Bra somehow hanging from a dining chair.

Asking nicely didn’t work. So, I escalated. I confiscated every pair of her patterned stockings. She came downstairs to find a ransom note with printed crime-scene photos of her abandoned clothing, complete with timestamps and locations.

EXHIBIT A: Hoodie, staircase. EXHIBIT B: Skirt, living room. EXHIBIT C: Bra, dining room. Motive unknown.

I informed her the hostage stockings would be released after three loads of laundry were washed, dried, and folded under supervision.

She called me a fascist. I called it restorative justice.

Mid-week, I bought a service bell and dinged it anytime she broke a house rule. After the seventh ding, she swiped the offending instrument and dinged it over and over right in my ear until I stole it back—and chucked it in the trash.

At the end of the week, I told her I bought her a gift. Huge box. Ribbon. Tissue paper. Another box inside. Then another. By the time she reached the twelfth one, she was vibrating between excitement and homicide.

At the center was one mini coaster. She stared at it, then at me before cracking her knuckles. “This means war.”

“Not a war, Princess,” I’d corrected. “A siege.” And I am undeniably more patient when it pertains to the long game.

God, she drives me crazy—as much as I do the same to her. Good thing we’re both crazier about each other. Most of our battles end in kissing or fucking. Or both.

A few other bright moments: visiting the cat cafe after hours. I’ve loved watching her bond with my sister, helping with closing up, and listening to Maisie’s brutal commentary about me, life, and coffee. Mostly coffee.

One time, Jubilee bumped into Maisie while grabbing more dishes, and Maisie huffed, “Stop apologizing for life-ing.” Jubilee laughed because it was “so Maisie”.

One night a terrified new rescue refused to come out from under a cabinet. Maisie just sat on the floor nearby for forty minutes without forcing it. Jubilee joined her. The cat eventually crawled into Maisie’s lap, and my girlfriend saw firsthand how my sister’s lack of conventional empathy has absolutely nothing to do with a lack of tenderness.

The only dark spot was the letter. Joshua gave it to Jubilee three nights ago at Saint Violet. Now, it sits on her laptop, sealed in an envelope.

Jubilee had finally agreed to see him again after spending most of the week doing what she does best: hacking for any bullshit. Joshua Ricketts was who he claimed to be. Records connected him to Jacob. The timeline held. So did enough of the story about their mother’s death and the trail that eventually led him to the cabin in Colorado.

Jubilee still didn’t trust him, but it earned him fifteen minutes at a table near Saint Violet’s back office with me sitting beside her. Joshua hadn’t seemed offended. If anything, I got the impression he respected it.

He’d slid the envelope across the table without ceremony. For Jubilee. Her father’s handwriting was on the front.

I watched every bit of color drain from her face.

For ten years, Jubilee hunted for her dad. In the end, she found me over the body of my target—a man she’d killed before I could—and fell in love with the man who killed her father.

It’s almost…poetic. Twisted as hell, but poetic.

Destiny’s a bitch, she said.

Maybe. But the bitch has impeccable aim.

I haven’t pointed it out or pressed her to talk. I get the sense these ongoing prank battles and irresponsible amounts of hyper-sexual cardio are her way of distracting herself. Not that I’m complaining about the second.

Now, she finally has a letter from Jacob himself. And she can’t open it.

This evening, I’ll be opening something else. An old wound. The darkest scar of my existence. Of my family’s existence. Tonight, Jubilee will learn why I am a serial killer—or in her words, a vigilante terminator.

“We’ve been driving quite a while,” she remarks with a pained sigh and kicks her stocking-clad feet on the dashboard. “Are we there yet?”