Page 57 of What We Burn

“I just—know.” It’s almost the truth, a sanded-down sliver of it. “Trust me, Amy. He didn’t do it.”

She lets out a tight breath. “Okay. Good. I mean, I know he’s a dick, but I didn’t want to believe he was—” Her mouth closes around the word. “Honestly, I’m not even sure why I’m telling you. I guess I just want her to come home. Or at least tell me she’s okay with . . . all of it. Everything that’s changed.”

Her face is open and pleading. She has no idea she’s being watched around the clock because the people who love Sage are terrified the same thing will come for her.

“Give her time,” I say. “She’s been through a lot. When she’s ready, she’ll come back to you.”

Amy nods, not believing it. “Okay. Well—tell her to call me? Just to check in.”

“I will.”

She lifts a hand, tucks her earbuds back into her ears, and jogs down the sidewalk. I watch her go until she rounds the corner. Then it’s just me, the half-weeded bed, and the sound of someone three yards over running a sprinkler.

I pull out my phone. Open a new message. Type her name.

Me:

Amy stopped by while I was working on my house. She misses you. Asked me to tell you to call her.

I stare at it. My thumb hovers.

I add, I miss you too.

Then I delete the last line. Then I put it back. Then I delete it again.

Me:

She shouldn’t be alone there, Sage.

I stare at that for a long time. Words that say everything I can’t. That Amy’s not safe. That Tyler will only be angrier once he heals from what Micah and Milo did to him. That whoever’s sending texts from a dead man’s phone knows where Sage lives—which means they know where Amy lives.

I delete all of it.

Me:

Amy says hi and misses you. She wants you to call her when you can.

Send.

Then, before I can talk myself out of it, another thread.

Me:

You still on her?

Dean doesn’t answer texts while he’s working. That’s the entire reason we use him.

I slide the phone back into my pocket and press my dirty palms flat against my thighs, staring at the milkweed I’ve been clearing—the stuff the monarchs lay their eggs on, the only thing a caterpillar will eat before it seals itself up and turns into something else.

Why can’t I be something else?

An engine comes up the street. Dean’s sedan takes the corner Amy took, and as he passes he gives me one nod through the glass.

That’s the answer. It doesn’t help as much as it should.

The phone buzzes.

Sage: