Page 177 of What We Burn

I flex my fingers slightly and test the door. Locked. I pop it in under eight seconds.

They say you can tell a lot about a motel by how quickly you can break into it, and this one screams I Would Not Leave Anything of Value Here.

We’re going to have a talk about operational security.

I push it open.

The first thing I see is blood. Not some blood. Not a lot of blood. I’m talking Tarantino levels. Carrie-at-the-prom levels. The carpet is black with it, the bedspread is soaked, there’s arterial spray on the wall behind the bed that looks like someone threw a bucket of paint. The TV has a streak across the screen. The ceiling—the ceiling—has drops on it. I didn’t know ceilings could be involved. That’s new information.

My eyes settle on the body.

Stine is facedown on the carpet in the middle of a blood splatter that looks like somebody loaded a Super Soaker with red body spray and went for Gold.

But there’s a black boot sticking out from beneath one of his legs.

And a blood-covered hand beside his shoulder.

Every joke in my head dies.

“Kitten?”

“Milo?” Her voice comes out muffled beneath two hundred and fifty pounds of dead rapist.

Air punches back into my lungs.

I take a beat to bask.

Because she’s alive. She’s conscious. And my tiny murder goddess is trapped beneath the man she killed like the world’s most fucked-up weighted blanket.

“Are you under him?”

“No, Milo. I’m standing behind you.”

There she is.

I grin as I step closer. “You know, competing for Gold is admirable, but proper lifting technique is important. The judges deduct points if you can’t dismount.”

A bloody finger rises from beside Stine’s shoulder. The middle one. She’s so perfect.

“Get him off me.”

“You could say please.”

“I could stab you next.”

“Aw. You do know my love language.”

I crouch beside her and the grin drops away as I assess what I can see. Her fingers move. Her boot shifts. No frantic gasping. No blood pumping from anywhere that appears to belong to her.

“Are you hurt?”

“My back hurts. My knee is stuck. And I’m pretty sure his blood is in my ear.”

“So, nothing life-threatening?”

“Not unless you keep talking.”

“Excellent.”