Page 106 of What We Burn

I declared my love for her the night I watched her murder Brock. But this . . . this was different.

The light turns green. I drive.

She’s different now. Harder in some places, softer in others. The girl on that couch was still processing the things she’d done, looking for a way to feel okay about it. The woman waiting for me at Holden’s house wants to kill again. She survived a noose and argued five trained killers into letting her go and pour coffee for strangers and shitty tips. She doesn’t need a throw pillow between us anymore. She doesn’t need a barricade at all.

I pull into Holden’s driveway. Her text comes through before I’ve even cut the engine.

Kitten :

Hurry. I’m about to start without you

Me:

Please don’t eat the popcorn without me.

Kitten :

I’m not talking about the popcorn…

“Fuck,” I mutter, and run up the stairs, kicking off my shoes and stripping off clothes as I go.

Shit, did I turn off the car⁠—

I skid to a halt in the bedroom doorway, staring at the gorgeous, naked woman on my bed.

Never mind.

TWENTY-NINE

HOLDEN

By Friday evening, Webster’s routine is boring enough to set a watch by. He leaves St. Clement’s at 6:40, give or take. Calls his wife from the car somewhere around the marina, hands-free, because he’s the kind of man who follows the small rules so no one looks twice at the big ones. By the time he hits the stretch of road where the streetlights give out and the eucalyptus closes in over the asphalt, he’s alone, he’s relaxed, and we can make it so there’s not another car for half a mile in either direction.

That’s our window. Tonight we take it.

We’re parked in the turnout past the bend, lights off, engine ticking. Knox is ahead on Webster’s expected route, behind a stand of trees with the road flares. Eli’s at the intersection behind the bend, ready to drag the road-closed sign across once Webster passes and seal the road behind him.

Next to me, Milo’s on his laptop, the blue wash of the screen making him look like something off a deep-sea documentary.

“Dashcam’s a Nextbase,” Milo says, not looking up. “Cloud-synced. The second we’re in the car I kill the upload and wipe the loop. His phone’s pinging the Verizon tower off the marina every few minutes like a good little boy.” He taps at his screen. “We can make sure it stays close to the body so it keeps pinging. Phone goes where Webster goes. Marina, coast road, bridge. Last location consistent with a man who drove out there by himself at night. The story tells itself as long as nobody fumbles the geography.”

“How would anyone fumble the geography?” Eli asks over comms. He’s been flat all day. The closer we get to a kill, the quieter Eli goes, like he’s drawing all the noise inward to keep his hands steady.

“I don’t fucking know,” Milo says. “Shit happens sometimes. I’m just covering my bases.” Milo looks up and jerks his chin. “Headlights. That’s him.”

I see them sweep the bend—a single set, high and white, slowing for the curve the way a careful man slows. Webster’s Volvo. He has no idea the next ten minutes are the last ten minutes.

“Sign’s in place,” Eli announces in my ear.

“Flares,” I say, watching ahead.

Down the road, three points of red light flare to life across the asphalt—Knox, laying them in a line, then melting back into the dark. A road closure. The most boring, ignorable thing in the world. A man sees flares and a dark shape that might be a stalled truck, and he does what every law-abiding citizen does.

He slows. He stops.

The Volvo’s brake lights bloom. Webster powers his window down, leans out, looking for the worker who should be attached to a setup like this.

Knox is already at the rear passenger door.