Page 231 of What We Bury

Hudson’s face pales, eyes darting between us. “No—no, this is a mistake. I didn’t do anything. Whatever you think?—”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Sarah Jenkins. Twenty-two. You cornered her in your office after hours, told her she’d never get a reference if she didn’t ‘play nice.’ You raped her and when she reported it, you buried the complaint with a non-disclosure and a payout she couldn’t refuse.”

Hudson’s mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out.

“Rebecca Torres,” Holden says, his tone ice-cold. “Nineteen. A summer program clerk. You got her drunk at a company event, and took her back to a hotel room. She woke up with bruises, bloody thighs, and no memory. She filed a police report, then withdrew after your lawyers threatened to sue for defamation.”

Tears are streaming down Hudson’s face now, snot pouring from his nose, slobber from his mouth. He shifts on the stool, and a wet sound echoes—piss hitting the tile floor beneath him, pooling around the stool legs.

“Pathetic,” Holden mutters, shaking his head. “Look at you, pissing yourself like a child. You had no problem hurting those women—cornering them, breaking them down—but now that it’s your turn, you’re a sniveling mess. The audacity of you assholes never fails to amaze me. You destroy lives without a second thought, but when the reckoning comes, you cry and beg like it’s unfair.”

“Do you know the names of the others, Bill? Can you remember them?”

“What do I care,” he barks, wobbling. “They’re cunts. They’re all just cunts.”

“Uh-uh, Bill. We don’t like boys who are rude. What were their names?”

“I can’t remember.”

I look over at Holden, who begins to recite them, one after another. The length is damning, his deeds disgusting.

“What do you want?” Hudson sobs. “Tell me!”

“This is a reckoning, Bill. When the Hangmen come for you, you’re fucking done. No more interns. No more threats. No more walking away clean while they carry the scars.”

“Please,” Hudson sobs, body shaking so hard the stool teeters. “I have money. A family. I’ll stop—I swear, I’ll?—”

“You had your chance,” I say, standing up. “You chose this.”

Holden moves too, and we step back in unison. Hudson’s eyes widen in terror, realizing what’s coming. He thrashes, but the binds hold, the stool wobbling precariously.

“No—no, wait?—”

I kick the stool out from under him.

It clatters across the floor, and Hudson drops, the noose snapping tight. His legs kick wildly, body jerking as the rope bites into his neck. Gurgles turn to gasps, face turning purple, eyes bulging in panic. We watch, silent, as he struggles—feet scraping air, piss and now shit dripping down his legs in his final humiliation. It’s not quick, but it’s efficient. His movements slow, weaken, until finally, he goes still, swaying gently from the pipe.

The silence after is always the best part.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders like I’m shedding a weight. “Note.”

Holden pulls the forged suicide confession from his pocket—Hudson’s handwriting, Milo’s masterpiece—and tucks it into Bill’s neatly folded clothes. It confesses everything, the assaults, the cover-ups, the guilt that’s “eaten him alive.” His browser history will back it all up.

No loose ends.

We leave through the service door, regrouping with Micah in the corridor. Milo confirms the feeds are clean—no trace of us.

We walk to the car in silence, crossing the lot like shadows, masks still on, bodies humming with the come-down. The second the car doors shut, Milo gives a little whoop—quiet, but there, a pop of static in the tension.

“Textbook,” he says, voice loose now, giddy with relief. “Banner-fucking-day for the team, boys.”

We all pull off our masks. Micah doesn’t speak right away. He’s breathing deep and slow, like he’s winding himself down from a sprint. I watch him in my periphery, waiting for theflicker of a smile. It doesn’t come, but he gives me a nod. Tonight went as it should. We needed a win.

Holden runs his hands over his face, then lets them drop. “God, I hate it when they shit themselves. Itstinks.These motherfuckers were happy to rape multiple women and the moment a little justice comes their way, the bowels open.”

“Next time, we put a tarp down first,” he adds. “That’s a note for the file.”

“Sphincter release is standard in hanging deaths,” Milo says, tucking the laptop away. “Adds authenticity to the staging, if anything. You’re welcome.”