Page 245 of What We Burn

I go downstairs. Put the coffee on that Micah never got to make. Stand in the kitchen in the dark and listen to the house settle.

My phone buzzes.

Eli:

Bodies are processing. Knox and I will be home by morning. Did Sage get back with Milo?

I type back.

Me:

Yeah. We had to call Gloria. She came and sedated him. He’s sleeping.

A long pause.

Eli:

Jesus. That bad?

Me:

You have no idea.

The dots start and stop. Then they go for a long while before the next message comes through.

Eli:

Tell him we love him when he wakes up. And tell Gloria thank you.

I pocket the phone. Lean against the counter and close my eyes for a moment.

Then the creak of the stairs. Gloria appears in the kitchen doorway, coat buttoned, Birkenstocks slapping softly on the hardwood.

“He’s out,” she says. “Sage and Micah are with him.”

“Thank you for coming, Gloria.”

She waves a hand. Then she reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out two bottles of pills.

“He won’t want to take these. Hates the way they make him feel. But if you have to”—she lifts one bottle up and shakes it lightly—“these are uppers”—she lifts the other one—“these are downers. Crush them into his food if he refuses.” She sets them on the counter. “I’ll trust your judgment on when he needs them.”

I study both bottles, one in each hand, then look at her in the way that says I’m not sure if you’re joking or if this is how your family operates. Gloria meets my gaze with a small, crooked smile. In the cyclone of tonight, it reads as comforting. Relief, even.

“I’ve got it,” I tell her.

“Good.” She reaches out and fixes a piece of my shirt collar. “He trusts you, you know. More than the others.” Her gaze meets mine. “Don’t break that trust.”

There’s not a lot that’s maternal about Gloria, at least not in the TV-mom sense; even her affection is brisk and functional, all economy and purpose. Still, in the quiet of the kitchen, I almost want to say something that isn’t tactical, something that admits how fucking hard tonight has been and how close-knuckled I am around it.

I follow Gloria to the door. She doesn’t look back, just walks down the steps like she has an Uber waiting, though the street is empty and the sky shows the faintest hint of coming dawn. For half a second, I think she’s going to disappear into the early morning ether like a hit woman or a myth. But then a sleek black car pulls up and she gets in. Our eyes meet. She raises two fingers in a salute, then drives off into the dark.

The house is quiet now.

I stand in the kitchen with my hands braced against the counter and try to line up the next ten moves.

Nothing comes.

Gloria is gone. Fourteen bodies are processing across town. Sage is upstairs in a robe after spending half the night dealing with Tyler’s hands around her throat and the other half holding Milo together.