Page 6 of What We Burn

“What about on your end?” I ask. “Status?”

Holden sighs. “The working theory is self-inflicted.”

The room shifts. Micah’s head comes up. Eli, awake now, makes a choking sound.

“Self-inflicted,” Micah repeats, flat.

“It’s the easiest explanation,” Holden says, hands on his hips, eyes straight ahead, unseeing.

Micah is staring at him. “And you sold them that?”

“I didn’t have to sell hard. The scene does most of it.” Holden’s eyes don’t move from the wall. “I worked it with the responding officers—stayed on because the watch commander asked me to. Steered nothing that wasn’t already there. No forced entry, no second set of prints, no sign of a struggle that couldn’t be her own panic. Crimes is treating it as an attempt, and I’m not stupid enough to correct them.” He shifts his weight—small, but it’s the first thing his body’s done since he walked in. “This way means no homicide file. No detectives crawling her life. No spotlight.”

“But . . . ” Micah starts. “It’s not true.”

“I know that. You know that,” Holden says. “We all fucking do. But it’s the best we’ve got.”

“An attempt,” Eli says slowly. “So they’ll want⁠—”

“A psychiatric hold. Seventy-two hours, minimum, once she’s medically clear.” Holden turns to look at Eli. “And that’s the part we use. Odin has a private facility. He already said we can get the hold transferred there. She’ll be protected, off the grid, and whoever did this won’t be able to reach her.” He pauses. “Buys us time to find them. Keeps our girl safe.”

Nobody speaks.

Holden is still looking at the wall.

“It’ll hold,” he says quietly.

Micah’s voice is very quiet. “Holden.”

“Don’t. Okay? It’s the only way.” His voice cracks on the final words.

I watch the green line.

The silence stretches.

Holden looks like a broken man. He’s building a lie to his own department about what was done to Fury. Both to keep us safe and so we can be the ones to deliver justice.

He’s using everything he has—his rank, his reputation, his colleagues’ trust in him, our trust in him—to write a story over the top of what actually happened to her. And it’s a really shitty, uncomfortable version of events. But he’s right. It’ll hold.

I stand up.

My right leg buckles when I put weight on it. The pins and needles hit so hard I have to brace on the bed rail for a second before the circulation comes back. I let go of Fury’s hand carefully, setting it back on the blanket. Her fingers stay curled where mine were.

“I need a walk,” I mutter, shaking out the numbness.

“Take your time,” Micah says. “We’ve got her.”

I don’t acknowledge Eli on my way past. I’m still pissed at him.

The corridor smells like disinfectant. I make it as far as the elevator before I have to put a hand against the wall.

I don’t cry. I haven’t cried since I was twelve. The thing happening behind my ribs isn’t crying. It’s something with weight to it. A heaviness my body wants to put down.

I take the stairs.

Milo is on the third-floor landing.

He’s sitting on the top step of the next flight down. Back against the cinder-block wall. Knees up. He’s not on his phone. He’s not doing anything with his hands. He’s looking at the concrete between his boots. For a man whose baseline is constant noise and inappropriate innuendo, the silence coming off him hurts both my ears and my soul.