Page 45 of What We Bury

I wonder what it would feel like against my chest?

I shake off my illicit thoughts and climb out of the hole to get some water. My shoulders are screaming, my hands are blistered, and the bandage on my forearm has gone gray with dirt and sweat, the cut underneath throbbing every time I close my fist around the shovel. She got me good—the blade and then her teeth, like she couldn’t decide which would do more damage. I haven’t changed the dressing since I patched it at the beach, but I can feel where her teeth went through my skin, and a part of me hopes it scars.

“Hey, Micah? What do you think of this?”

Blinking past my thoughts, I walk back to the edge of the hole. Milo is lying flat on his back, arms crossed over his chest like a vampire in a coffin.

“The fuck, man?”

His eyes pop open. “How do I look?”

“Like an idiot.”

“But am I fitting? Is there room for Brock? He’s broader than me. But I’m taller. We need to make sure he fits.”

“Milo, get up.”

“Not until you confirm the dimensions.” He wiggles a little, testing the space. “I think we need another six inches on the left. He had big shoulders. Very quarterback-y.”

I close my eyes and let out a calming breath. “It’s fine as is.”

“No. I’m gonna make it wider.”

He pops to his feet with alarming enthusiasm, grabs his shovel, and starts expanding the hole with the energy of a golden retriever who’s just been told he’s a good boy. I watch him for a moment, marveling at the way his brain works—chaos and competence in equal measure, all of it wrapped in a package thatlooks like a harmless hardware store employee and acts like a deranged bunny.

I remember the first time I met him. We’d been doing this for about a year at that point—Eli, Knox, Holden, and me. We had a system. Find the target, do the surveillance, wait for the right moment, make it look like suicide. Clean, quiet, untraceable.

And then Milo showed up.

He’d been watching us for weeks, apparently. Noticed the rope purchases at the hardware store where he worked. He’d followed us one night—just to see, he said later, like that was a normal thing to do—and ended up crouched behind a dumpster while we strung up a man who’d drugged and assaulted fourteen women over the course of a decade without getting jail time once.

We didn’t know he was there until it was over. Until the guy stopped kicking and we were about to clear out. Then suddenly there was this guy standing in the alley in painter’s overalls holding a bucket of cleaning supplies and a mop.

“That was really well done,” he’d said, cheerful as anything. “I thought there’d be blood. But also, his belt buckle is reflecting the light. Someone could see it from the street. Do you want me to fix that, or . . .?”

Eli almost killed him on the spot. Knox was reaching for his knife. Holden had his hand on his gun.

But something about the way Milo stood there, completely unafraid, more concerned about logistics than the fact he’d just witnessed a murder, made us pause.

“Who the fuck are you?” Eli had growled.

Milo smiled. “Just your friendly hardware clerk with an eye for detail and a great staff discount. I’d like to help.”

“Do you even care why we killed this guy?” I’d asked, and he’d shrugged.

“Not really. I’m sure you have your reasons.”

He’s been with us ever since.

“Hey, Micah?”

I blink, pulled back to the present. Milo is standing at the edge of the hole now, shovel propped against his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think they’re taking care of her? The others, I mean. Do you think they’re making sure she’s okay?”

“They’re watching her.”