Page 116 of What We Burn

They’d string me up themselves if they knew she’d given me the slip. But they can’t be surprised, can they? Sage doesn’t stay anywhere she doesn’t want to be. If she didn’t want us around her, I firmly believe we’d all be just as dead as Brock is.

I tail them for a few more minutes, until the Honda swings into a parking space at the far end of the mall lot.

Jamie and Sage hop out. He slings a backpack over one shoulder and says something that makes her laugh.

I park two rows back, out of sight, watching, because what the hell else am I supposed to do? I could walk up. Let her know there’s no running—not from us. But what purpose would that serve? She’s not trying to hurt anyone.

So I let her go.

She links arms with Jamie as they walk, and they cut across the lot, past a bus stop full of teenagers vaping in a cloud, through the sliding glass doors into the mall proper. I give them a healthy lead, hands clamped to the wheel, breathing like I’ve just outpaced a cross-country runner.

In my head, I can already hear Micah’s voice—So, what, you trailed her at fifty feet, then let her vanish into a Forever 21? Real top-tier protection, Eli—while Milo would just whistle and make some joke about being a voyeur who failed to seal the deal.

I get out of the car and tail them at a distance, drifting through the automatic doors a minute after they do. The mall is a living organism—too bright, over-air-conditioned, echoing with a half-digested slurry of top-forty pop and toddler meltdowns. It’s a surveillance nightmare, and I lose them in the crowd, and for three seconds I don’t have her. Then I spot Jamie’s backpack, a splash of faded red over his shoulder, as they move past a cell phone kiosk and into the open concourse.

They slow at a bank of benches near the escalators, and that’s when I clock the third player in this little escape act: Amy. She’s already waiting, perched on the edge of the bench with perfect posture and a tote bag in her lap, hair pulled back and sunglasses on top of her head. When she spots Sage, she stands and waves with both hands, and I swear to God, Sage lights up.

They collide in a hug that’s more crash than embrace. Both talking at once, Amy pulling back to hold Sage at arm’s length, checking her over the way women do when they haven’t seen each other in too long. Jamie hangs back with his hands in his pockets, grinning.

Amy is everything Sage isn’t right now—soft, beaming, unscathed. She wears a pale pink sundress and matching platform sneakers and a denim jacket just a shade lighter than Sage’s. She looks like she belongs in this place. Easy in her own skin, unburdened, the kind of normal Sage tries to fake and Amy doesn’t have to. Jamie stays to the side, making himself as small as a tall man can, watching as the awkwardness between Sage and Amy melts into something syrupy and loud.

Then Amy hugs Jamie, and Sage laughs, bright enough that it makes me want to go over there and be a part of it.

They wander together, the three of them. Through the first floor past the kiosk vultures, into a candle shop, then past the glass storefronts crowded with people who look like they’ve never had to explain away a mark on their neck or a night terror. I follow—not close enough to spook, but close enough to react if needed, and I keep the tracker app open on my phone so there are no gaps.

I grab a coffee to blend in, buy a skullcap to hide my hair. And I let her have her fun.

For now.

My phone buzzes again.

Holden

Knox said you’re out with Sage. Are you here for dinner? I’m cooking.

Me

We’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.

The dots dance, then stop. Then there’s almost a full minute before they start again and a message comes through.

Holden:

Stay safe.

Me:

We will.

The lies are stacking now. Each one clean, precise, the way I write lesson plans—no wasted words, nothing that invites follow-up questions.

They end up in a nail salon on the first level. Sage is in a pedicure chair with her feet in the water, head thrown back, laughing at something Amy just said. Amy is gesturing wildly, the way she does in staff meetings when she’s passionate about a topic. Jamie’s in the chair beside Sage, flipping through a color chart and asking the girls which green he should get.

I find a bench that has a diagonal line of sight. Far enough that she won’t spot me unless she’s looking.

She won’t be looking. That’s the whole point. For the first time in weeks, she’s not checking over her shoulder—she’s earned that.

I watch her for an hour. She’s happy. She’s animated. She’s the version of herself that existed before the rope—before the threats, before the house, before we closed ranks around her so tight she forgot what air tasted like. I tell myself I’m being clinical about this. That I’m observing, not stalking. Taking notes in case I have to explain to the group why the fuck I let her wander out of perimeter. But the truth is, I’m feeding on this.