Page 32 of What We Bury

“That’s probably a good thing. Most people talk too much, but they never reallysayanything. You know?”

I nod.

She looks up at me, adjusts the bag on her shoulder. “I guess you just strike me as way too quiet. You seem like the kind of guy who could kill someone with your bare hands and not break a sweat. Just a silent—” She raises her hands, flicking them in an imitation of a snap, making a sound that I guess is supposed to be a neck breaking.

I smirk. “Maybe. But it’s easier when people assume it’s a suicide.”

She goes quiet. For three steps, four. Her lips twitch, like she’s chewing on whether to keep pushing. “Why let me do it? I mean—under the jetty. I grabbedyourknife, right? You could have stopped me. But you didn’t. Why?”

I look straight ahead. The moon’s rising, a bright, bleeding gold through the salt-streaked windshields along the avenue. “He was yours to finish.”

She jerks as if I flicked a match at her. Her throat works, a hard swallow, and I catch it—the flash before she locks it down. “You have a really weird sense of morality.”

I don’t bother denying it. I just reach out and take her bag without asking. She makes a grab for it, shooting me a death-stare, but I’ve already shifted it to my non-dominant side and kept walking.

“Seriously?” She catches up to me. “You’re stealing my bag now, too?”

“No point in straining your shoulder.”

She glares at me. “You’d better give it back this time. You and your squad already took enough of my things.”

If only I’d taken some underwear as well. Could have jerked off on the fabric instead of into my goddamned palm.

“I will.”

We turn onto her street and I can see her building up ahead—paint peeling, windows dark.

“Who’s next on shift?” she asks. “And how often do you guys rotate? Holden was this morning. And I saw the guy with the jacket—the one who cleaned me up—he was watching during the lunch rush at the diner. And now I have you. When do the other two show up?”

I consider the question, weighing how much to tell her. She deserves honesty—she’s earned it, the hard way—but there are things I can’t say. Things that aren’t mine to share.

“Micah and Milo are busy.” I don’t know this for sure. But my guess is that they’re freezing their asses off in a meat locker while Milo deals with Brock’s body in his own psychopathic way. I almost scoff at the idea.Weekend at fucking Bernie’s.

“Micah and Milo? Wait. Hold up. I need to get this straight.” She lifts a hand, ticking us off on her fingertips. “We’ve got Knox, Holden, Milo, and Micah. Which one is the guy in the jacket?”

“That’s Eli.”

She sighs. “Okay, and Micah and Milo are . . .?”

“Micah was the guy holding you, Milo’s the one who looks like a feral raccoon high on caffeine.”

“He was the one going on about the note?”

“That’s him.”

She snorts. “Got it. So where are they now? Like, do you have jobs? Or is there a lot of money in being a murder puppy?”

I ignore the jab. “We all have jobs. This is more of a hobby. A very satisfying one.”

She chews on her bottom lip as she thinks, and fuck if I don’t want to take my thumb and free it, press against it, just to see if the pink would bloom brighter, just to see if she’d bite me for even trying.

I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them to myself.

“Tomorrow, you’ll meet Eli properly.”

“Autumn eyes,” she mutters to herself, nodding. We walk a few steps before I catch her watching me.

I wonder what she sees—monster or guardian or just another fucked-up man in a long line of them.