Page 19 of What We Burn

Our eyes lock, and I read the sorrow there, the need, the want for absolution.

I reach over and snap the curtain shut.

SIX

HOLDEN

Odin’s already halfway down the hall when I fall into step beside him.

Five days. That’s how long this has been going, and I’ve barely slept through any of it—back and forth between this hospital, the station, and a crime scene I’m working as quietly as I fucking can. In that time I’ve lied to three detectives, a watch commander, and the responding patrol unit. I made sure the case didn’t land on my desk—I can’t be the detective of record on the woman I share a bed with—but a senior cop who happens to be standing at a scene gets listened to, and I made sure of that, too.

I walked it with a guy I’ve mentored for two years—who trusts me. I stood beside him and let the wrong story harden into fact while I nodded along like a man confirming the obvious.

Self-inflicted.

It’s good fiction—the kind that holds because the pieces look true. They’re just arranged into the wrong shape. There’s a cost to every lie. In this one, the bill lands on Sage.

It means she gets to watch the world treat her like she’s a threat to herself. Worse, it means they won’t let her out of the hospital without an escort. She can’t eat, sleep, or take a piss without someone observing. Her body, her mind, her motives—all up for dissection.

She didn’t choose this, and she sure as fuck isn’t the kind of woman who wants pity. So every time I walk in and see her sitting upright in bed with the hospital blanket pulled over her knees like she’s royalty, I see the split lip, the gauze at her throat, the defensive way her hands curl into the blanket. And there’s no fixing it. There’s just reinforcing the lie and making damn sure it never cracks.

Odin keeps walking until we’ve passed the nurses’ station, turned the corner, and reached the small alcove by the vending machines where a row of plastic chairs sits empty under a flickering bulb. Then he turns to me, hands in his trouser pockets while he looks at me like I’m the one who’s supposed to start this conversation.

“Thank you for organizing Sage’s care,” I say, rubbing the back of my stiff neck and immediately resenting the need for a thank-you, a show of deference to a man who, in another life, would be across the table from me in an interrogation room. “And for the paperwork. I realize you needed to pull a few strings to get her out of here so soon.”

“It’s in all of our best interests,” Odin says, but doesn’t smile. He surveys the alcove, grimaces at the flickering light, and sits with calculated nonchalance in one of the cheap chairs, crossing his ankles. He waves a hand at the chair beside him.

I ignore the gesture. I’d rather stand.

“I don’t want her at the Sanctuary,” Odin says, eyes locked on mine. “It’s not necessary. She’ll recover better at home.”

I blink, once, slow. “I thought that was the whole point of the transfer—that you’d keep her on-site. Round-the-clock medical care.”

He shakes his head, just once, like he’s irritated by the implication. “The facility’s at capacity. A small . . . situation I won’t elaborate on. But it’s locked down for now.”

“So, what? We just . . . take her home? Hope for the best?”

“To the contrary. Yes, you can take her home. But she’ll still get the best care money can buy,” Odin says, voice clipped. “A rotating team, handpicked. Every expert signed off, every protocol followed to the letter.”

“Who?” I ask.

“A trauma nurse with ICU experience. A respiratory therapist. A speech and swallow specialist for the next stage of her recovery. Two private aides for observation and assistance. Dr. Maddox will review her chart personally and visit within twelve hours of discharge.” Odin folds one ankle over the other more firmly. “They’ll rotate in shifts. She won’t be unattended.”

“And psych?” The word tastes foul.

A pause. “On paper, yes.”

I hold his gaze. “In reality?”

“In reality, she won’t be interrogated in her own home by some opportunistic clinician looking to satisfy liability requirements. A psychiatrist from my network will conduct the initial assessment, document exactly what needs documenting, and no more.”

Meaning: the hold gets satisfied without Sage being poked raw.

Good.

I slide my hands into my pockets to stop myself from rubbing my neck again. “Okay. But she doesn’t go back to her apartment. She’s staying with me. The medical team can set up there.”

He smiles. “Naturally.”