Page 72 of What We Bury

“Bigger.”

I move it again.

“Sage.Bigger.That’s a child’s portion. That’s a slice for a man who’s given up.”

I slide the knife out another inch, fighting my face.

“There. No—you know what, just keep going. Commit. Oh, that’s it. That’s a big old slice of that rich chocolate. Mmm, yeah. Now the cream.Morecream. Drown it. Ooooh, yes. Just like that. Now swirl it.” His voice drops into something obscene. “Oh yeah, baby.That’s it.”

By the time I look down, I’ve cut him roughly two-thirds of the pie in one monstrous wedge, with a snowdrift of whipped cream collapsing off the side. What’s left in the case is a sad little crescent that wouldn’t feed a toddler.

I’m shaking so hard with held-in laughter I can barely lift the plate. It takes me a minute to gather myself, then I walk over and slide it in front of him.

“Thank you,” he says, with both hands on his heart, like I have handed him a child to baptize. “This is the best moment of my week, Sage, I want you to understand that.”

I roll my eyes. “Try it first, then I’ll get your other pieces.”

He picks up the fork and cuts a bite. He puts it in his mouth, and his eyes close. His lips move and he makes a sound from somewhere deep enough in his chest that I can feel it across the counter.

“Mmmmmh.”

“Stop it!” I laugh, glancing around. “You’re making a scene!”

“Sage.This is the best pie I have ever had in my life. I’m going to write a poem about it. I’m going to call my mother. It’ll be tattooed on my chest. I’m going to name a child after it.”

“It’s frozen wholesale, Milo. We get them from a warehouse in Bakersfield. They come in stacks of twelve.”

“And I will treasure it always.”

He takes another bite and hums, and then he sets the fork down and gestures at the pie with both hands, like a sommelier presenting a vintage to a table of dignitaries.

“Notes of sugar and spice,” he tells me seriously. “A finish of butter and salt. It has a backbone that lingers on the palate and reminds me of triumph over adversity, like an aftertaste ofRockytwo through five. This pie hasfound its purpose.”

That’s the moment I lose it.

It happens before I can stop it—I snort. I slap a hand over my mouth, but it’s already gone, escaped, irretrievable, and the second half comes out through my fingers as a hiccupping gulp. It’s so undignified that I laugh again, harder, and then I’m leaning on the counter with my hand over my mouth and my eyes are wet and my shoulders are shaking and Frank is, finally, looking up from his patty melt to assess the situation.

I haven’t laughed like this in months. Possibly years. Possibly ever.

The strangest part—the part that is making my brain stutter—is that the man making me do it is the same man who watched me turn another man into mincemeat.

What is happening right now?

“I love your laugh, kitten,” Milo says, grinning as he leans back in his seat.

“Kitten?” I roll my eyes. I’m not sure about this as a nickname.

“Because you’re stabby and adorable. My murder kitten.”

I shoot a glance down the counter at Frank who has returned to his melt. “Don’t! Someone might hear.”

“But it’s a term of endearment. Knox came up with it.”

I give him a look. “Knox? Really?”

“You’re right. He would never. It was me. I came up with it.” He stabs another bite of pie. “Why? Don’t you like Murder Kitten?”

“No.”