Page 110 of What We Bury

She lifts her wine, eyes dancing. “I can and I will.”

I groan. “Fine. Lead the way, kitten.”

“Tell me more about your role in the Hangmen.”

I sigh dramatically. “Subject changenoted.” I swirl pasta. “I’m the mutt. Little of everything. Forgery, recon, digital cleanup. I do the suicide notes, I keep the dead boys posting on Instagram. Brock’s currently in Santa Cruz on a bender with a girl named Jessica. In a few months he’ll post from Bali, announce a detox, and disappear forever.”

“Forging the notes—that has to be hard. Learning someone’s handwriting.”

“A lot of practice. A bunch of digging through garbage. Sometimes a little break and enter.” I take a sip of the good stuff I sprung for, because if you’re going to ambush a woman with dinner you should at least try to impress her. “You can tell a lot from someone’s handwriting, though. Brock’s signature was twice the size of the rest of his writing. Big sharp angles, no curves. Classic narcissist-with-a-control-problem. The man was a walking red flag in cursive form.”

She blinks. “You can actually read that off a signature?”

“You forge enough notes, you start to see the person behind the letters. It’s basically my superpower. That and pasta.”

“World-class forger who’s deeply committed to the craft.”

“Artisan liar,” I correct, grinning.

We eat in comfortable silence for a beat. The pasta is excellent, if I do say so myself. My mom taught me the secret to good cooking is giving a shit, and I give many shits. Especially when it comes to Sage.

“Can I ask you something?” She sets her glass down.

“You can ask me anything, kitten. I’m an open book. A weird, poorly organized book with some pages stuck together—likely with jizz—but open.”

She bites her lip. “Are you trying to get me to talk about my sex fantasies again?”

I grin. “Caught me. I’m a simple man. I make pasta, ask invasive questions, hope for filth.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

“It’s one of my better qualities.” I tip my head. “But no. I’m actually asking. Are you okay? Not the I-tell-people-I’m-fine version. The ugly one.”

Her mouth does that tiny tell again—presses flat, then softens. She’s deciding whether to duck or trust me. I keep my face loose. No pressure. Pressure makes people bolt.

“The ugly truth?” she says finally. “I keep waiting for it to hit me harder. The guilt, the horror, the whatever. And it just . . . hasn’t. I don’t know if that means I’m handling it or if I’m just broken.”

“Option C: you’re neither. You’re someone who did something and hasn’t figured out how to file it yet.” I shrug. “Filing takes time.”

“Voice of experience?”

“Something like that.”

I don’t elaborate. She doesn’t push. I like that about her too.

She picks at a garlic knot. “Can I ask something else?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“This.” She gestures at the table, the dinner, me. “Is it normal for all of you to be into the same girl? Or is this—” she waves the bread, “—some kind of polyamorous murder club?”

I nearly inhale my wine, which would make two attempted food-and-beverage homicides in one meal.

“Sage.”

“Sorry!”

“No, no—I just—” I dab at my mouth, grinning. “Every time you slip sex into the conversation I have something in my mouth. You’re going to kill me, kitten.”