Page 110 of What We Burn

Webster goes cleanly, almost neatly, and then the rope catches.

There’s a single violent stop. A crack that carries over the water like someone snapping a branch across their knee.

Cervical dislocation. Instant or near enough. His body hangs there, turning once on the line, shoes knocking uselessly in the dark. No kicking. No theatrical choke. Just dead weight and the faint creak of nylon against steel.

Webster got the fast one. Sage didn’t.

I watch for movement because that’s the job. Not because I doubt it.

Nothing.

Beside me, Knox keeps one hand on the rail for another beat, making sure the knot took the strain. It did, of course. Milo ties for finality. Knox shoves for outcome. The system works because each person understands their function.

Milo exhales through his nose. “Well. Gravity remains dependable.”

No one answers him.

I step closer to the edge and put the beam down once, quick and narrow. Webster hangs long enough to tell me what I need to know.

“Done,” I say.

Milo moves immediately. He always does once the line between alive and dead is crossed. He peels away from the rail and heads for the van, ready to stage the scene. Knox gives the body one last assessing look, then turns too. Eli stands still for half a beat longer, staring out into the dark where Webster hangs, then follows without a word.

I take one final sweep with the light. Rail. Gravel. Tire tracks where there should be tire tracks. No dropped weapon, no stupid human error glittering in the beam. The bridge gives us back only what we brought to it.

Good.

By the time I reach the Volvo, Milo is bent through the open driver’s door, gloved hand placing the folded page exactly where a patrol officer will see it the second he shines a flashlight inside. He slides it into the center dash, visible enough to be found, casual enough to look self-placed.

His masterpiece.

He straightens and brushes two fingers over the paper’s edge, aligning it with Webster’s phone beside it. “There,” he says quietly. “Self-loathing, panic, vague accountability, no legal specificity, and just enough shame-soaked sincerity to make everyone wish they’d taken those allegations seriously.”

“Poetry and paperwork,” I say. “Your two native languages.”

He preens under the mask. “And both in service of the public good.”

“Move.”

He does. Fast.

Knox is already moving toward the van. Eli circles wide with the light, checking the shoulder one last time. Efficient. Quiet. The after always has its own rhythm. Less adrenaline. More certainty.

I give the note one final look through the windshield. Webster’s phone. Folded confession. A setup that says “troubled suburban monster takes scenic drive and does the world a giant favor.”

Then I shut the door.

“Let’s go.”

We pile into the van.

By the time we’ve switched vehicles and made our way home it’s past eleven.

The porch light’s on when I pull in, and the front curtain moves like she’s been sitting by the window waiting for us. And knowing Sage, she probably has.

The door opens before I can insert my key.

“Wildcat.” I grin and she jumps into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist and kissing me as I carry her inside, the others trailing behind us.