Page 228 of What We Burn

He laughs, and the sound is wrong—wet and slurred with drink. “You, Sage. Somehow, it’s always fucking you. Everything. Always. Always about YOU.”

I flinch at the boom in his voice. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

He is. I can smell it—the sour, rancid heat of a man who’s been drinking all day. His hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides. Dangerous in the way wild animals are dangerous—no threat at all until you’re close enough to matter. I could run, but he would chase. I could scream, but he would lunge first.

“Tyler.” Amy moves. Just a half-step, but it breaks the spell. “This isn’t okay. You need to go home.”

“Home.” He spits the word. “What’s the point? I’m alone. You left me. And she—” He points at me without looking away. “She ruined everything. My relationship. My face. My best friend is gone because of her and nobody will tell me what happened to him.”

“Brock left,” I say. “That’s all anyone knows.”

“Brock didn’t leave.” He’s close enough now that I can see the bend in his nose and the pale scar across his cheek. Up close, the beating he took is a roadmap of controlled violence. Evidence of what my boyfriends are capable of.

And it’s standing in my living room.

“He didn’t leave,” Tyler says again, and his voice cracks on the word leave. “You all packed up his shit. Took his car. Made it look real neat, like he just decided to start over somewhere. But I knew Brock. I knew him better than any of you.” His hand jabs toward his own chest. “He would never have left that dog. You understand me? He loved that dog more than he loved any person on this planet. He would’ve slept in his truck before he left without her. And you want me to believe he just—what—drove off into the sunset and didn’t take his dog?”

Underneath the rage, I hear the grief. Raw, unprocessed, the kind that curdles into violence when it doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

“He was my best friend. Why won’t you tell me what happened to him?”

“Tyler—”

“TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED TO BROCK!”

The roar fills the apartment. Amy flinches. I don’t—I’ve been roared at by scarier men than Tyler. But my hand is on the door frame and the light switch is on the other side.

My phone is on the coffee table.

Holden is in the parking lot. And Tyler doesn’t look like Tyler anymore. Fuck.

“I’m going to ask you one more time to leave,” I say.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He’s vibrating now, winding himself up toward whatever comes after asking. “Not until someone tells me the truth. Not until someone looks me in the fucking eye and starts telling me why!”

“Get away from her!” Amy screams.

Tyler doesn’t turn around. His eyes are locked on mine and his hand comes up fast.

His fingers close around my throat.

“AMY—FLICK THE LIGHTS!”

It comes out of me before his hand clamps off the sound. I see Amy lunge for the switch by the kitchen. The overhead flickers, on, off, on, off—the signal we agreed on, the one that means something’s wrong, get up here now.

My back hits the wall. I get my hands between us and claw at his wrist, but his grip is an iron band, driving the pendant that’s supposed to protect me into my windpipe. My vision bursts with static. He drives me backward, slamming my skull into drywall; the edge of a picture frame skims my cheek and drops to the floor with a shatter. Amy is screaming. Tyler’s face is inches from mine, his teeth bared like an animal, spit flying with every venom-loaded word.

“Fucking tell me,” he seethes. “What did you do to him? What the fuck did you do?”

I try to knee him, go for the groin, but my balance is shot and he just laughs, spit in the back of his throat. I hear Amy scrabbling behind us, something clattering to the floor. Then all of a sudden Tyler’s eyes go wide and a wet, staccato sound splits the air. He jerks backward, his hand falling away from my throat, and I gulp in a breath of air. For a half-second he stands there, sway-legged and slack-jawed, like he doesn’t understand what’s happening. I don’t understand what’s happening.

But then his mouth opens in a foam of rage and confusion, and his gaze rolls, twisting to look at Amy, who’s standing behind him holding the biggest knife from our set—the one we only use when all the others are in the dishwasher.

She looks stunned. Haunted. Her hand is shaking so hard the point wavers. She aims it at Tyler’s ribs anyway and shoves it in, lower this time. This time he screams, high and sharp, and staggers toward me with murder in his eyes. I get my foot up and kick, hard, right at the spot where the knife hilt is sticking out of his side. He goes down to his knees and collapses on his side. The knife shifts with the impact and he makes a sound—a gurgling, choking thing that comes from somewhere deeper than his throat. His eyes find Amy’s face and stay there.

“Amy,” he manages.