Page 233 of What We Burn

“You said two pets.”

“Two pets.” He starts walking again, faster, toward his truck. “Amy and Sage. That’s what they’ll think. That’s what the yard’s for, right? They’ll come running, because that’s what these guys do. That’s what Tyler would’ve wanted—” He stops. Corrects himself. “That’s what Tyler did. He put them up for sale. I’m just finishing the listing.”

I step in front of him. He tries to walk around me. I move with him.

“I said don’t⁠—”

“I heard you.” I keep my voice level, quiet. “I’m not stopping you.”

He stares at me. The manic energy doesn’t leave his eyes, but it organizes a little.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Making sure you walk out of that warehouse.”

“You think I need backup?”

“I think you’re not thinking.” I tap the side of his head, two fingers, gentle. “You’re feeling. That’s not how we work.”

His jaw works. For a second I think he’s going to argue. Then all that noise pulls tight around a single point.

“They hurt her,” he says. “Both of them. Sage got choked. Amy’s got blood on her hands she’s never going to wash off. And everyone who shows up tonight is a guy who read that post and asked for pictures.” He holds up the phone. “Knox. They’re sending deposits.”

I look at the screen. Someone’s sent a photo of cash fanned on a table.

“How long?” I ask.

“First response said fifteen minutes.”

“Then we have twelve. We’ll take my truck. I’m driving.”

Milo doesn’t fight me for the wheel. That’s the first bad sign.

He climbs in hunched over the phone like it’s a lit fuse. I pull out of the lot and the screen lights his face from below. Every chime moves his mouth.

“Seatbelt.”

No answer. I reach across at the stop sign and drag it over him myself. Click. He lets me. Second bad sign.

“‘No limits,’” he reads. “‘Willing to pay extra for rough.’ Extra. For rough. Like it’s a pizza topping, Knox, like—” He laughs. Hollow. It breaks in the middle and doesn’t come back together. “I’m screenshotting everything. Names, handles, payment apps. After tonight I’m gonna work through whoever’s left, one by one. I don’t care how long it takes, I don’t care if I’m eighty⁠—”

“Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

He is. But it’s shallow. Frantic. Knee bouncing.

“Stephen is dead,” he says.

I keep my eyes on the road. There is no point in talking now. He can’t hear me.

“He’s dead. Tyler’s dead. Stephen’s dead. Same fucking person. I told them. I told Holden. I told Eli. I told everyone, and they kept looking at me like I was seeing monsters in the wallpaper. I wasn’t. I knew. I’m the only one who knew.”

I drive. Pike Street is eleven minutes out. I’ll do it in nine. But the whole way, the phone doesn’t stop. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Each one feeds the twitching and the muttering, the occasional burst of manic laughter.

I think about Fury’s throat. Tyler’s marks blooming purple over the scar she already carries. I think about Amy on the floor, staring at her own hands like they belonged to a stranger.

My hands stay on the wheel. My rage is not loud. It never has been. It sits in my chest like a stone in a well. It’ll still be there when I need it.