Page 164 of What We Burn

The corner of her mouth almost moves. “Then stop calling it the short straw.”

“Fair,” I say.

She looks at me.

I hold out my hand. She takes it, but she doesn’t let me pull her into my lap. Instead, she steps between my knees and rests one hand on my shoulder.

I wrap my arms around her waist and press my mouth against her stomach, kissing her through the shirt. She’s warm. Tense. Her fingers settle at the back of my neck, and for a second, she lets me hold some of the weight.

Then she looks over my head at Milo.

“And we’re having the surveillance summit. Now.”

Milo freezes with a celery stick halfway to his mouth. “I was supposed to make slides.”

“You were specifically told not to make slides,” Holden reminds him.

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d agree to. Are you sure it wasn’t an evil twin?”

“Milo.”

The joke dies.

He sets the peanut butter on the table and wipes his hands on his pants.

“Okay, kitten. We’re listening.”

Sage touches her throat. She’s not wearing the choker, but we’re all aware she’s pissed about the tracker. “What exactly does the cameo tracker collect?”

Milo answers. “Location. Battery level. Movement state and the time of the last signal.”

“Movement state?”

“Whether the pendant is moving or stationary. It doesn’t know if you’re walking, driving, or being carried. Just that it changed position.”

“Can it tell if I’m wearing it?”

“No.” Milo spins the jar of peanut butter between his fingers. “The software knows where the tracker is. It doesn’t know where you are if you take it off.”

Holden’s jaw tightens. “That’s why we’re asking you not to.”

Sage ignores him. “Who can see it?”

“All five of us,” Milo continues. “Separate encrypted access through our phones.”

“Do you store where I’ve been?”

“Twenty-four hours, then the map wipes itself. The current location and last signal always remain. The raw GPS coordinates stay in a separate log until I manually clear it.”

“How often are you all checking my location?”

Nobody answers quickly enough.

Sage’s eyebrows lift. “That often?”

“It varies,” Holden says.

“That isn’t an answer.”