Page 42 of What We Burn

“Because if Stephen’s watching, having me bring everyone’s devices here will tip him off. This way, it looks like we’re all just hanging out.”

He pulls into the driveway of a house so aggressively normal it looks like a stock photo. Beige siding. White trim. A garden gnome by the front steps. A wind chime tinkling on the porch.

Milo kills the engine.

“Ground rules,” he says, turning in his seat to face all of us. “Don’t touch anything without asking. Don’t mention the server room to anyone who isn’t in this car. And if anyone asks what you do for a living, you’re all in a softball league and I’m your coach.”

“Softball,” Knox says.

“It’s the least threatening sport I could think of.”

“You could have said book club,” Micah offers.

“Knox in a book club.” Milo looks at Knox. Knox looks at Milo. “Very believable.”

“I read,” Knox grumbles.

Everyone laughs. I laugh too—half a second late, like a tourist clapping on the wrong beat. The body does the laugh. I get there afterward.

“Why aren’t we using bowls as the cover?” Eli asks.

Milo shoots him a look. “Because we’ve played exactly one game and forfeited the rest due to no-shows—we’re the laughingstock of the tournament.” He turns to me. “No shade on you, kitten. I’d rather be with you any day. But those octogenarians are a mean bunch. People say they aren’t great at technology, but I think those all-caps emails are intentional.”

He’s out of the car before anyone can argue further. The rest of us follow, stretching our limbs after the cramped drive.

“Coming?” he calls, shaking his keys.

I follow the others up the walk, and for a fleeting second, I let myself pretend we’re just friends going to someone’s house to hang. That the silk scarf covering my neck is a fashion choice. That the men around me are just guys. That the dead man in my phone is a glitch.

Then the door opens and we file in.

The entryway is tidy and smells like Pine-Sol. There’s a shoe rack by the door, a framed cross-stitch that says BLESS THIS MESS in cheerful yellow thread, and a man on his hands and knees scrubbing the tile floor.

He’s maybe late forties, stocky, with a receding hairline and the kind of thick forearms that come from decades of manual labor. He looks up when we come in and smiles.

“Hey, Dad,” Milo says. “I’m taking my friends to the basement to hang out.”

“No problem, son. Have fun.”

He goes back to scrubbing. Milo breezes past him without introducing anyone and leads us into the living room.

Where there’s another man.

This one is tall and thin, mid-fifties maybe, with reading glasses pushed up on his head and a bottle of furniture polish in his hand. He’s working the coffee table in slow, careful circles, and when he sees us, he straightens and gives a friendly nod.

“Hey, Dad. I’m taking my friends to the basement to hang out.”

“No problem, son. Have fun.”

I look at Micah. Micah looks at Knox. Knox looks at Holden. Holden looks at the ceiling like it might offer an explanation. Behind me, I can practically hear Eli’s brain short-circuiting.

Milo keeps walking. Through the living room, past a bookshelf full of paperback thrillers and framed school photos of a grinning kid I recognize as a younger, even more chaotic version of Milo and a girl I’m assuming is his sister, and into the dining room.

Where there is a third man.

This one is at the dining table, sorting mail. He’s compact, dark-haired, wearing a Hawaiian shirt over a turtleneck—I realize now they’re all wearing turtlenecks. He’s humming a Michael Bublé song.

“Hey, Dad. I’m taking my friends to the basement to hang out.”