Page 109 of What We Burn

“No, no, no, no—” he sobs, scrambling with his heels, trying to push himself backward. “Please, I have a family, please—my wife—my children⁠—”

“You destroyed nine children and their families with what you did,” Eli says.

Milo’s at the hood with the rope already in hand, expression gone sharp in the dark. He tugs on the end of it, making sure it’s securely attached to the bridge’s rail before turning his masked face toward us.

“Has anyone given him the ‘sentenced to death by hanging’ line yet?” he asks, spinning the noose like a lasso.

Webster starts making that sound again. “Please,” he says, voice breaking apart. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I made mistakes, I made mistakes, I can fix it, I can⁠—”

I move in front of him and let him see the gun. Let him see me. Let him understand the way this night is going to end.

“You don’t get to fix what you did to children.”

He shakes his head so hard spit strings from his mouth. “I didn’t⁠—”

“Liar,” I say.

Milo slips the noose over Webster’s head before the man can finish whatever denial he was going to vomit into the dark.

Webster wails and thrashes so hard Knox has to catch him by the back of the shirt and the throat, pinning him upright while Eli tightens the knot.

“Please,” Webster sobs. “Please. Please. Please.”

Eli steps in front of him and starts saying the name of every boy who filed a complaint with St. Clement’s, one after the other. He leaves a beat after each name. Long enough for it to land.

That’s the moment Webster breaks all the way.

His knees give. His bladder goes. The smell hits sharp and sour over the river stink and the eucalyptus and the dust. He starts babbling, words tripping over sobs.

“Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll confess, I’ll go to the police, I’ll do anything, please don’t⁠—”

Knox hauls him toward the railing.

“The Hangmen have found you guilty,” Eli says. “There will be no trial. No deal. No NDA. Only reckoning.”

We close around him. A wall of skulls.

“No. No.”

“Your sentence is death,” Eli continues. “And the only choice now is do you jump yourself? Or do we do it for you?”

Webster stares at the drop like it might open and argue for him.

It doesn’t.

His mouth works. His knees shake hard enough to chatter the rope against the rail. He’s crying so violently the sound turns inward, little hitching barks of breath and mucus and panic. For one second I think he might actually do it. Save us the effort. Give himself the dignity of choosing.

Then he looks back over his shoulder at us.

“Please,” he whispers.

I tilt my head. “No.”

Knox’s hand clamps harder in the back of Webster’s shirt.

Eli says, “Now.”

Knox shoves.