Page 227 of What We Burn

Tonight, I’m okay—and she believes me.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I pick it up and glance at it, and the name stops my heart for a quarter-beat.

BROCK.

I stare at it long enough that Amy leans over, squinting. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, but my fingers have gone bone-white around the wine stem. “Spam text.”

But it’s not spam.

Brock:

Miss me? Hope your friends like nooses too. Wouldn’t want them to miss the fun.

I exhale through my nose, slow and quiet. It’s nothing—just whoever it is amping up the threats because they’re not getting a reaction. Milo said the more I ignored it, the more creative they’d get. But Amy is watching me, and I don’t want her to worry. More importantly, I don’t want to ruin pajama night.

I set my phone down, knowing the guys will handle it. Then I turn toward Amy and muster my most casual tone. “Can we talk about the acting in this? Like, please tell me you remember the part where the killer says ‘It’s harvest time, bitch’ and then, like, slips on a corn husk and face-plants?”

She snorts. “I’m waiting for that scene. That’s the best scene. You can see his entire villain arc collapse in real time. It’s better than therapy.”

“Not a high bar, considering how many therapy sessions this movie undid for the nation,” I say, and then we’re arguing about whether the original scream queen deserved to die three times in the same movie.

A knock sounds at the door.

“Finally,” Amy groans, throwing the blanket off. “If he brought kale chips, I’m revoking his spray tan privileges.”

“I’ll get it.” I’m already up, waddling across the floor so I don’t ruin my nails. I look a mess with only one decent set of lashes. But I’m grinning now because Jamie’s here and the face masks are next and the spray tan booth is waiting and tonight is going to be perfect. I grab the door handle.

“Jamie!” I holler as I pull it open.

My smile dies. My blood turns cold.

“Wh-what are you doing here?”

FIFTY-SEVEN

SAGE

“Tyler?” Amy’s voice comes from behind me. “What is— Why are you here? A-are you okay?”

He doesn’t look okay. His nose is flattened at the bridge, pushed slightly left and crooked enough to change the whole geography of his features. A pale scar cuts across his right cheekbone. Each injury is small, but together they rearrange the face I remember. This version isn’t the polished frat boy I knew. His eyes are bloodshot, his clothes rumpled like he hasn’t slept in days, and there’s a wildness in his stance that makes my skin crawl.

I’ve read Tyler’s posts inside The Kennel—step-by-step instructions for cutting a woman off from her friends and family, all of it drawn from what he’d been doing to Amy.

He knows exactly how to trap a woman.

“Surprise,” he sneers, stepping forward before I can slam the door.

“Tyler, you need to leave,” I say. My voice is way steadier than I expect. “Right now.”

“Or what?” He takes a step toward me. “You’ll call your boyfriends? The ones who grabbed me off the street? The ones who took me to some warehouse and did this?” He gestures at his face. “Don’t say it wasn’t them. They might have been wearing masks, but I’m not an idiot.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit.” Another step. He’s between me and Amy now, and I can see her behind him, her face white, her hands at her sides. “Brock disappears. You move in with five guys. I get my face broken by men in skull masks asking about almost everyone I know. About you, Sage. About what happened at your apartment.” He stabs a finger toward me. “Somehow, every fucking question comes back to you.”

“I . . . ” I shake my head and take a step back. “I think you need to leave.”