Page 239 of What We Burn

I shake my head. “He slid in with other residents, acting like he belonged. Cap and glasses. We fucked up. He got upstairs. Things got out of hand and⁠—”

“She stabbed him.”

I nod. “She did.”

Dean nods, processing. “She’s going to need someone around for a while. The shock wears off in stages. First night’s the worst, but the second and third aren’t much better.”

“I know. Problem is, I don’t think she can come to ours. She doesn’t know what we do. Bringing her into the house means bringing her into—everything.”

“She just killed a man and you’re helping her dispose of the body,” Dean says. “I think she’s already in.”

He’s not wrong. But there’s a difference between a woman who stabbed her ex in self-defense and a woman who knows she’s surrounded by vigilantes who hunt and hang the men the law leaves behind. One of those can still be explained as a terrible night. The other changes her entire reality.

“She can stay here,” Dean says. “Upstairs. There’s a full apartment—two bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom. I lived in it for a while after my divorce, but it’s clean and no one will bother her. I’ll be close by if she needs anything. She can stay on the premises until you figure out the next move.”

I trust Dean with my life—I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t—so trusting him to watch over Amy is a no-brainer.

“She might need you a couple nights,” I say, thinking about how she clung to his shirt, how she’s already attached her panic to the first safe person she saw.

“Fine by me. Keeps me out of the house.” He smiles. “You ever sleep in a place like this? Not as bad as you’d think. Gets quiet. Doesn’t even smell weird after the first day.”

We’re heading back toward the family room when gravel spits against the loading-bay door.

Both Dean and I run to the service entrance as Knox’s truck stops crooked across the concrete.

The passenger door opens before the engine dies.

“KITTEN!”

Milo cups his hands around his mouth and screams for her.

“KITTEN!”

Fuck.

Sage appears behind me.

Knox climbs out of the driver’s side while Milo rounds the front of the pickup. A tarp is stretched tightly over the truck bed, secured from rail to rail. Whatever is beneath it has been packed high enough to distort the shape.

Milo is drenched.

His shirt is soaked dark. His bare hands are red to the wrists, and someone’s blood has dried through his hair. His eyes are fever-bright. He rocks forward onto his toes when he sees Sage, like the energy inside him has nowhere left to go.

“Is any of that blood yours?” she asks.

“Some. Maybe. I don’t think so. Nothing important.” The words tumble out too fast. “Fourteen, kitten. Twelve accounts, fourteen men. Two brought friends. Friends! To a rape party. Who invites a friend to that shit? More to the point, who the fuck accepts?”

A laugh jerks out of him.

Sage doesn’t move.

Milo keeps going.

“I lured them. Pretended I was Tyler. One brought beer—can you believe that? But it’s okay. I killed them. Oh, and we took their phones and watches and everything they had because Fenrir can use them. Knox brought bags. Gasoline. Not enough tarps, though. Wouldn’t have needed the gas if we had enough tarps⁠—”

“Milo.”

He stops talking, but his body doesn’t stop moving. Fingers flexing. Shoulders twitching. Weight shifting from foot to foot.