Page 180 of What We Burn

I pull out my phone. “I’m saying we need to call Holden.”

She sits up, eyes wide. “No. Milo, no. He’ll⁠—”

“He’ll what? Be mad? Kitten, they’re all going to be furious. Knox is going to have an aneurysm. Eli is going to go so still we’ll all fear for our lives. Holden will probably spank you—and not in the fun way Eli does it. And Micah—” I wince. “Micah is going to give us both the look. You know the look.”

“The disappointed-parent look.”

“That’s the one.” I tuck her hair behind her ear. “But they’ll also help us. Because that’s what we do. And because they love you. And because this guy—” I nod at the floor. “—had it coming.”

She looks at the body. Then at me. Then at her hands, still red and trembling.

“They’re going to kill me,” she says.

“They’re not. They might kill me, because I knew and let you do it. But you? You just proved you’re one of us.” I hold up the phone. “Can I call?”

She takes a breath. Nods.

I dial Holden. He picks up on the second ring, because Holden always picks up on the second ring. It’s pathological.

“Where the fuck are you? It’s two a.m. And we’re⁠—”

“About that—funny story.”

FORTY-SIX

SAGE

“Note the arterial spray pattern on the east wall. Consistent with a lateral stabbing motion from a right-handed assailant approximately five-three in height.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I chew on the straw of the empty Capri Sun while Milo paces the room taking photos of the scene “for educational purposes” and narrating his observations into his phone like he’s hosting a true-crime podcast.

“The ceiling involvement suggests an upward thrust that⁠—”

“Milo. Please stop.”

“I’m documenting. This is important for your growth as a killer.”

The knock comes sharp. Two raps. Pause. One rap. The signal Milo said to expect.

Milo opens the door. Holden steps inside and the room immediately feels smaller.

He takes in the body first. Clinical sweep, top to bottom. The eye socket. The chest wounds. The blood pooling on the carpet. Then the walls. The bedspread. The ceiling. He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps finding more of it. Then his eyes land on the bed. Handprints. Bloody smears. The unmistakable impression of two bodies moving together.

He looks at me. Then at Milo. Then back at the bed.

“You fucked in his blood.”

It’s not a question.

“Holden,” I start.

“It was more on top of the blood than in it,” Milo tries.

“There is blood on the ceiling, Milo. This entire room is in blood.”

“That was from the stabbing, not the sex. Most of the blood involved in the sex was already on Sage before we got on the bed, so technically⁠—”

“Stop talking.”