Page 208 of What We Burn

SAGE

Sat, Sep 05 at 7:42 p.m.

BROCK:

Your men can’t watch you forever, pet. I only need one minute alone with you.

Aweek ago, I would have deleted it, swallowed the threat, and let it feed the part of me that loves the feel of my blade sinking into flesh.

This time, six phones buzz at once.

MILO:

Logged. Route’s bouncing again. I’ll pull it apart when we’re home.

Holden catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “Plan stays.”

To the guys’ credit, nobody acts like a bomb has gone off. Nobody tries to wrap me in bubble wrap or tells me I’m sitting this one out.

Knox holds out a black skull mask.

It smells like rubber and someone else’s breath.

In the seven days since Holden opened the new file beside my pancakes, I’ve sat through every briefing, memorized the surveillance footage, and argued over everything from exit routes to whether two suicide notes are one too many. Tonight, I get to find out whether I can follow the plan or if that thing that loves to kill will take over when there’s blood in front of me.

I turn the mask over in my hands. It’s the same as theirs—matte black skull, hollow eyes, smooth and featureless except for the jaw, which is angled in a way that makes the wearer look like death’s patient cousin. I’ve seen these masks before. Under the jetty, the night everything started. Five skulls emerging from the dark while Brock choked on a rope.

Now I’m the one putting it on.

“Fits tight,” I say, adjusting the elastic. “How do you breathe in these?”

“Shallow,” Knox says. “Through the nose.”

“Helpful.”

Holden is driving us in a “borrowed” SUV. Micah and Eli are with Milo in a different vehicle, waiting for the go signal. Everyone enters together. If the plan holds, everyone exits together. One house, two targets, two teams splitting at the hallway.

Holden checks his watch. “They started drinking around noon. Knox laced the bourbon with Dave’s own sleeping medication. The notes Milo crafted say they thought selling the house and starting again somewhere new would help them move on from what they did to Dave’s wife.”

“Ex-wife,” Knox corrects.

“Exactly,” Holden continues. “They go on to say they realized they couldn’t keep living with the lie, so they took the pills with alcohol because they deserved to be punished.”

“That means whatever toxicology finds supports that story,” I confirm.

“Correct.”

“Are we sure they’re drinking from the laced bottle?” I ask.

“There was only one there during the open house this morning. Milo switched it out while he was pretending to be a buyer.” Holden doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “You remember the layout?”

“Three bedrooms, one hallway. Dave is the first door on the left. Andrew is at the end on the right. There’s a bathroom between them.” I recite it the way I memorized it—from the folder, the whiteboard, and three hours spent around the kitchen table with pancake crumbs and murder logistics. “We enter through the back door. Knox confirmed it doesn’t lock properly because the latch has been broken since they moved in. The neighbors on the left are away for Labor Day weekend. The house on the right is an empty rental. Street’s dead.”

“And if something goes wrong?”

“You and Knox stay with me and take the back door. Eli, Micah, and Milo use the side door. We regroup at the cars. Drive normally.”

Holden nods.