Page 20 of What We Burn

I look past him at the vending machine. A bag of pretzels hangs crooked on the spiral, caught halfway to falling. Feels about right.

“Has Fenrir turned up anything else on Stephen?” I ask.

Odin shakes his head. “He’s a wolf with a bone. But even he can’t pull something from nothing. Until Stephen makes a mistake, we’re stuck.”

“Damn.”

“It’s clear from their text communication that Stephen and Brock were involved romantically. But they seem to have gone to extreme lengths to keep that quiet.” He shrugs. “Whoever he is, the man doesn’t want to be found.”

That’s the part that keeps me up. Every predator I’ve ever hunted left a trail—phone records, financials, a sloppy text, a card used somewhere it shouldn’t be. People are careless. Even the smart ones.

Stephen’s given us nothing. No surname. No address. A first name that fits thousands of men. But none of them have any kind of active link with Brock. He’s the only one with information, and he’s decomposing under six feet of sand and stone where we put him.

“Tell Fenrir thanks for trying.”

Odin lifts his chin. “He’ll keep looking. The man doesn’t like the unsolvable.”

I press my lips together. “Neither do I.”

He lets out a breath and stands. “The transport should be here soon. I’ll be in touch.”

I nod. “Thanks for coming.”

He turns to go.

That’s when Rosaline comes around the corner with a patient file in her hand.

She’s reading as she walks, flipping between pages, her braid over one shoulder and a pen behind her ear.

I’ve watched her work. She’s good. Thorough without being clinical, gentle without being patronizing. Yesterday she braided Sage’s hair off her neck without being asked, and when she caught Sage trying to see her own throat in the chrome of the IV stand, she quietly angled it away.

She looks up before she walks into us, and I watch her professional expression settle into place.

“Detective Cross.” Her gaze flicks to Odin and seems to get stuck there. Heat floods her cheeks as the air thickens in a way that makes me think I should leave these two alone for a minute—or perhaps yell at her to run. She seems too pure to be tainted by the world we operate inside.

“Mr.—” She catches herself, like she’s just realized she doesn’t have his name. “Sir. I’m processing the paperwork now. Sage should be ready in about an hour.”

“Thank you.” His gaze drops to the name tag at her chest. “Rosaline.”

He says her name soft and deliberate, and her blush deepens. She’s half his age and not the kind of woman who should be on Odin’s radar—and the fact she is tells me something I’m not sure I want to know.

She pulls her eyes from him, gives me a small nod, and turns on her heel, heading back down the corridor.

Odin watches her go.

His face doesn’t change. But his eyes narrow as she rounds the corner. It’s the look I’ve seen before. Right before he⁠—

“Holden.”

“Mm?”

“Find me everything you can on that nurse.” He turns back to me.

I go still.

For half a second, all I hear is the fluorescent buzz overhead and the soft mechanical hum of the vending machine. Then my mouth moves before the rest of me catches up.

“No.”