Page 204 of What We Become

I don’t remember the last four miles. One second, the road is an endless slick of rain and fractured yellow lines, and the next, I’m pulling onto a quiet street with a row of identical houses, each fronted by manicured lawns and two-car garages. It screams safety and conformity.

The car jumps the curb as I take the turn too sharp. My foot slams the brake, jerking me forward as the front bumper clips a mailbox, snapping it clean off its post with an ugly crunch. Concrete fragments scatter across the driveway. I kill the engine.

The house looks ordinary. Except it isn’t. It’s a lie wrapped in beige siding and soft porch lights.

My door creaks as I shove it open. I brace a hand on the roof and haul myself upright, keeping my weight off the left leg. There’s no time for careful. Every second I waste is one more second Stephen has with Fury, with my family.

I limp to the door, dragging my bad leg behind me, leaving smears of blood on her pristine white walkway. My fist meets the door, the pounding rattling the hinges. Once. Twice. Loud enough to wake the dead.

The door swings open before my third knock lands.

Gloria stands in the frame. She’s in her robe. Reading glasses on top of her head. Shotgun held at her side.

Her eyes take me in. The blood. The torn clothes. The destroyed mailbox. The stolen car on her lawn.

“Knox,” she says. “Has something happened to my son?”

FORTY-EIGHT

SAGE

Icome to with a gasp that sears my dry throat, my lungs clawing at the air like they’ve been lit on fire. Everything is wrong. My shoulders scream, a deep, throbbing ache radiating down my arms, and I realize I’m hanging—wrists bound above my head, the rough bite of rope digging into my skin. The smell hits me next. Damp hay, manure, rust. A barn.

My head throbs as I force my eyes open, the wooden beams above swimming into focus. Dust motes swirl in the faint glow of a single bulb that swings overhead, casting jagged shadows across the space. My body feels heavy as hell, legs dangling uselessly beneath me, toes just barely brushing the straw-covered ground. Knox’s shirt still covers me. The birthday collar presses against my throat every time I swallow.

“Shit,” I whisper under my breath, wincing at the sound of my own voice scraping the air. My heartbeat’s erratic, banging around in there like it’s looking for the exit.

It takes a moment to adjust, to orient myself. That’s when I see them.

To my right, Milo, then Holden, next to him, Micah. On my left is Eli. They’re all strung up just like me. Same ropes, same hooks mounted in the barn’s support beams. Their heads hang forward, faces slack, bruised and bleeding. I watch Milo’s chest until it rises. Then Holden’s. Micah’s. Eli’s.

Breathing. All four of them.

Thank God.

I twist in my restraints, trying to get a good look around the barn. But no matter where I look, Knox isn’t here.

“Milo,” I croak, my voice barely above a whisper. I swallow hard, tasting blood and bile, and try again. Louder this time. “Milo, wake up!”

The words feel like sandpaper scraping against my throat. For a moment, there’s nothing—no movement or sound except the faint creak of the ropes holding our weight and the distant calls of birds waking to the dawn. Then he stirs. His head tilts slightly to the side, a groan escaping his lips.

“Milo,” I call again, desperation bleeding through. “Come on, don’t make me go through this alone.”

His eyelids flutter, and after what feels like an eternity, his eyes crack open. The brown in them is dull, unfocused, but it’s enough to make my chest unclench just a little. He blinks a few times, squinting at me, then at the barn around us.

“Kitten?” His voice is hoarse, and he grimaces as if speaking is painful. “What the hell . . .”

“Yeah, it’s me.” Relief surges in spite of everything. “Can you move? Are you⁠—”

“Not exactly ready for a yoga class, no.” He cuts me off with the ghost of his usual sarcasm, but it’s weak, hanging on by a thread. His gaze darts around the barn, taking in our surroundings, the ropes, the hooks. His face hardens. “Shit. This isn’t good.”

“No kidding.” I pull at my bindings instinctively, wincing as the coarse rope bites into my wrists again. “How bad are you?”

“Bad enough,” he grits out as he tests his own restraints. “You okay?”

I don’t bother answering that. “Holden, Micah,” I say instead, turning my head toward them. “See if you can wake⁠—”

Holden groans before I can finish, his head rolling back with a pained grimace.