Page 13 of What We Burn

“She’s a liar,” Tyler spits. The fear is still there but the anger’s winning now, the way it does with men like him—men who’d rather be furious than terrified because fury feels like control. “Brock probably turned her down and she got bitter about it. She was all over him at that party. Hanging off him, begging him to go down to the beach. Then when he doesn’t give in to her, she cries rape? That’s what this is? You grabbed me off the street and beat the shit out of me because some lying bitch couldn’t handle being rejected?”

I cock my head, the mask grinning at him. I imagine him seeing not my eyes but the black lens-sockets, the me inside totally erased.

For some reason, that’s when I start to like Tyler. Not as a person—as a person, he’s a cautionary tale about what unchecked masculine stupidity does to a man given enough time. But I like that under threat, with a knife at his face, his true self comes squirming out. No filter. Not even the survival instinct to fake decency.

It’s almost refreshing, knowing exactly how big of a fucking idiot he is.

I lean in. “You know what’s funny?” My voice is very, very soft. “I kind of believe you. I think you do mean that. That you think women make up stories to make themselves more important or to get back at guys who reject them. And that’s why you’re here, not because you fucked up and got caught, but because you have the bad judgment to run your mouth about things you’ve never experienced for yourself. It’s majestic, really.” I press the flat of the blade against Tyler’s throat. He jerks, squeals, pisses himself a little—judging from the darkening stain at his groin—and then clamps his mouth shut in desperate, toddler-grade stubbornness.

“You want to know what I really hate about men like you?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “It’s that you knew. You can’t be besties with a serial rapist and have zero fucking clue that he’s torturing women right under your fucking nose. How many accusations did you dismiss? How many times did you watch him get a girl blackout wasted and laugh while he did whatever he wanted? Did he drive her home or did you? Were you part of the bragging? Were there any mentions in the group chat? How much of it did you ignore because it was more convenient to believe it was all fun and games?”

Tyler is shaking. He doesn’t answer but he doesn’t need to. Ugly truth has a way of blooming in a room like a fungus—you just have to wait for the spores.

Micah steps forward. The warehouse is mostly empty, nothing to cushion the noise, so his voice echoes. “This isn’t about revenge. You don’t matter, Tyler. None of you do. You protect each other, you kill truths before they get to the cops, you make a joke out of hurting people. And now you’re what? Cleaning up the last of his mess? Is this something you and Stephen do all the time?”

Tyler blinks. “What? Who the fuck is Stephen?”

“You are,” I say, watching for the flash in his eyes.

His voice gets shrill instead. “I’m fucking Tyler! You’ve got the wrong guy! I don’t know any Stephen.”

Fucking liar. I hate liars.

“You sure about that?” Micah asks. “Super close to Brock.”

“There’s no Stephen. Brock’s crew was me, Chris, Darren, sometimes Jake from the gym. That’s it. I knew everyone Brock hung out with.” He’s shaking his head so hard the chair rocks. “There’s no Stephen.”

Well, that part’s bullshit.

“So you and the boys weren’t planning on paying Sage a visit?” I ask. “Intimidating her into telling you what happened to your precious rapist-buddy Brock?”

Tyler’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. The hesitation tells me everything.

“That’s— He’s not a fucking rapist. And we just wanted to talk to her. She knows something. Brock wouldn’t just disappear without telling me⁠—”

“And what does ‘talk to her’ look like, Tyler?” I tilt my head. “A friendly chat over coffee? Or something more hands-on? Cornering her? Roughing her up a little? Putting your hands around her throat?”

“No! Jesus, no— We weren’t going to hurt her. We just wanted answers. Chris said we should go to her apartment, that’s all. Just show up and ask her straight⁠—”

“Show up at a woman’s apartment. Three guys?” I let that sit. “You hear yourself, right?”

Tyler’s face crumples. “We weren’t going to⁠—”

“What about the noose that was left in her apartment?” Micah says from the wall. “Was that part of the plan too?”

“What? No! What the fuck are you talking about? A noose? Why would we—” Tyler looks between us, genuinely bewildered, and for the first time tonight I see something in his face that isn’t anger or fear or bravado. It’s confusion.

“Someone threatened her then hung her, Tyler,” I say. I shouldn’t be telling him this. Holden would lose his mind. But I want to see his face when it lands.

He doesn’t disappoint. The blood drains out of him so fast I think he might pass out. His mouth goes slack. His good eye widens until I can see white all the way around.

“What?” It comes out as a whisper. “Someone—what do you mean, hung her? Like— Is she dead? Is Sage⁠—?”

“She’s alive,” Micah says. “No thanks to whoever did it.”

“That wasn’t—” Tyler is hyperventilating now, chest heaving, the chair rocking with the force of it. “That wasn’t us. I swear on my fucking life, that wasn’t us. We would never— I would never— Chris talks shit but he wouldn’t— We’re not— Jesus Christ, someone tried to kill her? What about Amy? Is she okay? Oh God.”

He’s going to throw up. I can see it building—the green tinge, the convulsive swallowing—I step back just in time as he twists sideways and vomits onto the concrete. It’s mostly liquid. The sharp smell of cheap beer and stomach acid. It stinks.