Page 149 of What We Burn

“Tell me,” he says.

“All three phones cloned. It’s all on its way to Fenrir.” I pull my seatbelt on and stare at the bar entrance. Through the window I can see Chris’s silhouette, still talking. “Chris is an asshole but he’s an open book. Darren follows whatever Chris says. Jake is a different beast altogether.”

“How so?”

“He’s got an app on his phone. Encrypted. Sideloaded. Icon looks like a dog kennel with a padlock. It’s invitation-only access.” I turn to look at Holden. “It’s not standard software. It’s something built for people who don’t want to be found.”

Holden’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Can Fenrir crack it?”

“If anyone can, he can. I’ve sent him everything. He’ll need time, but he’s got the raw material.”

Holden processes that. I can practically hear him sorting it into columns.

“Jake reacted to Stephen,” Holden says.

“He looked at Chris before he answered.”

“Which means he recognized the name, or knew Chris did.”

“Either way, the answer wasn’t clean.” I drum my fingers on the dashboard. “Tyler named Chris as the ringleader, but Jake’s the one carrying The Kennel around in his pocket.”

“The gym connection,” Holden says. “Tyler said Jake was ‘from the gym.’ Which gym?”

“Already on it. Fenrir will pull location data from the phone clone. If Jake and Brock shared a gym, that’s a physical location where they could have met without the rest of the group knowing.”

Holden nods. He puts the car in gear and pulls slowly out of the lot, headlights cutting through the dark.

“You did good in there, Milo.”

“I know.” I pull out my phone and start drafting a priority message to Fenrir. Subject line: Dig deep.

Then I add a second line, because I can’t help myself.

Bet you $50 you can’t crack this in less than forty-eight hours.

Fenrir’s reply comes quickly.

Add two more zeros and I’ll do it in twenty-four.

THIRTY-NINE

KNOX

Fury’s fingers trace one of the bees fanned across my left pectoral.

We’re lying together on Holden’s couch after a workout in the garage. An old treadmill, a mat, a pair of adjustable dumbbells. Enough to train Fury. My gear is still at my apartment.

She ran three miles today without stopping, up from two and a half last week. Her form is getting better. Feet landing midfoot instead of heel-striking, arms loose, chin level.

I stripped off my sweat-soaked shirt before lying down. Now she’s pressed against my side, damp hair cooling my skin, one leg thrown over mine. Her fingertip circles the bee.

“This one’s my favorite,” she says.

“You said that about the last one.”

“They’re all my favorite. That’s how favorites work when everything is perfect.” She shifts and presses her lips to the bee. Warm mouth on scarred skin. “I love this tattoo.”

It’s for you.