Page 99 of What We Burn

I laugh. It comes out watery but real.

“Listen,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms. “I know you’ve got a group of burly guys who are all up in your business. And I’m sure that’s great—having people who care and want to protect you, and all that. But sometimes what you need isn’t another person watching your every move. Sometimes you just need to get out. Blow off some steam. Do something stupid and pointless that doesn’t involve anyone doing broody googly eyes. Or trying to get in your pants.”

He points at himself. “That’s me. I’m your guy. Or gal, if that makes your harem of men feel better about you spending time with someone who has a pulse and a penis.”

“They’re aware you’re gay.”

“Then they already know I’m the safest penis in town. Use me.” He spreads his arms like he’s offering himself as a sacrifice. “Pedicures. Bad movies. Extremely overpriced smoothies from that place on the boardwalk that puts spirulina in everything. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, no questions asked, no surveillance required.”

“You’re going to regret that offer.”

“I’m already regretting it. But I’m committing anyway.” He lifts his mug. “To terrible life choices and excellent company.”

I don’t have a drink, so I just tap the coffee pot against his mug. “To terrible life choices.”

I’m halfway through my shift before I remember what normal feels like.

It’s clearing tables. It’s balancing a tray on one hand and refilling coffee with the other. It’s penciling in names on the waitlist with a squint and a smirk, it’s the rush of plates and the clatter of mugs and the constant, just-under-the-surface hum of conversation.

It’s that I’m here, with a smile and a throat only slightly inconvenient, and nobody in this building is dead or trying to kill me.

At least not yet.

The regulars are practically on a rotation: the old couple who only ever split one omelet and bicker about it for the full forty-five minutes they’re seated; the two twenty-something guys still hungover from whatever the hell they did last night, one ordering coffee like it’s life elixir and the other texting under the table. The left banquette is occupied by the notorious Tuesday Mom Squad, who are all yoga pants and topknots and passive-aggressive requests for nonfat creamer.

In another life, I could have been one of them. Maybe not with a minivan or a husband who pours protein powder in his coffee—saw it once, still have unresolved issues about it—but I could have had the brunch, the gossip, the solid wall of female solidarity. The normal.

Milo says it’s still on the table, if I want it. He says I could take any life I want, that nothing’s an all-or-nothing deal unless you make it one. That I could have five men and a mortgage and a white-collar job and a secret extracurricular hobby, if that’s what I want. He says people contain multitudes, and ours are just messier than most.

He’s probably right.

But as I weave through the tables, dodging a toddler’s flailing arm and balancing a stack of dirty plates, I know I don’t want it. Not after everything—the beach, the rope, the texts. Not after tasting what it’s like to fight back, to take control, to be part of something bigger and darker than brunch and small talk.

The knife Knox gave me is tucked into my boot, a constant weight against my ankle, reminding me that I’m not just a waitress anymore.

I’m a survivor. A killer. And maybe, if I push hard enough, a Hangman.

The bell over the door jingles, pulling me from my thoughts. A new customer walks in—tall, baseball cap pulled low, backpack slung over one shoulder. He scans the room, his eyes lingering on me a second too long before he heads to a corner booth.

My stomach twists. It’s probably nothing. Just a guy grabbing lunch.

I glance out the window. Knox’s truck is parked across the street, right where he said it would be. I breathe a little easier, paste on my server smile, and head over to take their order.

TWENTY-SEVEN

KNOX

Idon’t like this.

Fury’s back at the diner, exposed like a target in a shooting gallery. I argued against it—hard—but she pushed, and the others folded.

She’s got the knife, at least. I saw her slip it into her boot before she left, the hilt flush against her skin. She’s barely healed, but she stands behind the counter refilling mugs and smiling like she’s made of Kevlar.

I’m parked across the street in the truck, engine off, windows tinted just enough to blend in. The diner’s busy—lunch rush, people coming and going. Fury moves inside like she owns the place, tray balanced, smile on for the customers. She’s wearing that choker Holden gave her, the velvet hiding the scars. It looks good on her, but it makes me want to rip it off and kiss the skin underneath.

My phone’s open to the camera feed Milo rigged—grainy but clear enough to see her chatting with that friend of hers, Jamie. Background check says he’s harmless. Some kid doing his graduate studies. The worst thing Milo could dig up is two unpaid parking tickets.

I like him for her. He gives her something outside us. Outside the blood and the bullshit.