Page 238 of What We Burn

Technically true.

Her eyes stay on him for another second, searching for where she might have seen him. Dean gives her nothing.

He hefts her in his arms, bridal-style, and gestures to me with his chin.

“Can you pull the door?”

I do. The funeral home smells like air conditioning and lilies and Pine-Sol, which is a weird but not-unpleasant cocktail, and we move through a short hallway into a side room that looks half like a doctor’s office and half like somebody’s living room. There’s a couch. There’s a coffee table. There’s even a Kleenex box in every corner, as if the room is allergic to suffering.

Dean deposits Amy on the couch and kneels in front of her, big hands gentle on her knees. “Amy. You’re safe here. You need water or something warm?”

Amy is trembling, her fists twisted in the front of Dean’s shirt. “I—I don’t think I can let go,” she whispers, and it’s so earnest I nearly look away.

“That’s fine,” Dean says. “You don’t have to let go. I’ve got you, sweet girl.” He reaches up and runs a hand over the side of her blonde head, thumb swiping away her tears. “You hold on as long as you need.”

It’s a while before she lets go. Dean stays right there, kneeling on the tiles, his arms braced around her, his cheek pressed to Amy’s hair. He talks to her in this low, steady way, like he’s narrating a long drive through the middle of the night and just wants her to stay awake until they’re out of the dark. Sometimes he doesn’t say anything at all, just holds her and lets her shake and ride out the surges as they come.

Sage stands beside me, and I pull her against my side.

Watching Dean hold Amy through the shock takes me back to the beach. Sage in Micah’s arms. My jacket swallowing her body. All of us clinging to one another before we understood what we were becoming.

“Do you think she’s okay?” Sage asks.

“No.” I kiss the top of her hair. “But she’s not alone.”

Sage watches Dean murmur into Amy’s hair. “That helps.”

“Sometimes it’s the only thing that does.”

Amy lets Dean go long enough for him to get her a cup of water. He walks her through every sip. After a few more minutes, she’s sitting a little straighter, breathing a little deeper.

“Okay. I think I’m okay now,” she says, her voice thready.

“That’s good,” Dean says, moving to stand. Amy’s hand immediately shoots out and grabs him.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m doing that.”

Dean smiles and sinks into a crouch again. “You’ve been through a lot tonight. It’s okay to want to hold on to something—or someone.”

She takes a deep breath and slowly uncurls her hand. “You can . . . you can go . . . I’ll be okay.”

“All right.” Dean stands and this time Amy doesn’t grab for him. Although I do notice the way she fists her hands to stop herself. “I’ll come back and check on you soon. Is that all right?”

Amy nods. “Just . . . don’t be long . . . Okay?”

“Of course.”

Sage takes the seat next to Amy and holds her hands, giving me a quick smile as Dean and I go to deal with the body.

“Two hours,” Dean says once we’ve got Tyler’s body unwrapped and loaded into the retort. “Give or take. Depends on mass.”

“He’s about one-eighty.”

“Closer to two and a half then.” He adjusts the temperature gauge on the retort. “You want to wait?”

“I doubt Amy will go quietly. So yeah, we’ll wait.”

Dean nods. “Isn’t this the guy we were worried about? How’d he get to her?”