Page 157 of What We Bury

“Since I’m trying to be a gentleman.” He holds up a tablet. “Can I come in? I need to talk to you about something.”

The serious tone catches me off guard. Holden doesn’t do serious. He does charm and deflection and that lazy grin that makes you forget he’s probably the most dangerous person in the room. But right now, the grin is absent. His jaw is set, his eyes are steady, and there’s something in his posture that saysthis matters.

“Sure.” I step back. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

I pour him a cup while he sits at the kitchen table, setting a tablet face-down like he’s not ready to show me yet. He takes the coffee, sips it, nods appreciatively.

“Black,” he says. “No bullshit. I like it.”

“What’s going on, Holden?”

He sets the cup down. Looks at me, a tight indent forming in the center of his brow.

“I’m going to tell you something, and you’re probably gonna be pissed,” he says. “You have every right to be. I’m here because you deserve the whole truth, not a version of it. Whatever you do with that truth after I hand it over is yours.”

My stomach drops. “Okay.”

He turns the tablet over and slides it across the table. The screen shows a grid of four camera feeds—my front door, my hallway, my living room, my kitchen. All live. All showing my apartment from angles I’ve never seen before. I can even see us sitting at the kitchen table, me looking at the tablet, looking at myself.

For a moment, I don’t understand what I’m seeing.

Then I do.

Shit.

“Milo installed security cameras when he swapped your lock last week,” Holden says. His voice is level, factual, givingme space to process. “Four of them. Common areas only—no bathroom, no bedroom. Motion-activated, cloud-stored. He didn’t tell you. He didn’t ask.” His eyes stay steady on mine. “He did it because in his head, it was the smart play for your safety. His intent doesn’t undo what it is.”

I stare at the feeds. Kitchen. Living room. The couch where I sat with Milo and watched movies. The couch where I’ve done more than just sit and watch TV recently.

Oh god.

“The footage,” I say, and my voice sounds far away. “From the living room. Did he?—”

“He saw you and Micah in the living room. Not the bedroom. There’s no camera in the bedroom.” Holden doesn’t look away. “He saw enough to know what happened. He also caught Amy here. And me, at your door, kissing you. I turned the tablet over before the others saw that part, but it existed.”

I should be furious. And I am—there’s a hot, bright thread of anger pulling tight in my chest, the kind that comes from being watched without knowing, from having your privacy peeled back by someone who was supposed to be safe. But underneath the anger is something more complicated. Because Miloissafe. Milo is chaos and pasta and terrible jokes and the man who listened to all my troubles and watchedBridgertonandLord of the Ringswith me. Who gave me something and didn’t take for himself. He’s not malicious. I genuinely believe that.

Still . . .

“The others?” I ask. “How did they react?”

“Eli nearly put him through a wall. Micah went ice cold. Knox went even quieter. And I took the tablet and came here.” He pauses. “The cloud backup has been deleted. I’m here to remove the physical cameras. But only if you want them gone.”

“Why wouldn’t I want them gone?”

“Milo thinks Tyler is a problem and having eyes on your apartment when none of us are here isn’t the worst idea in the world.” He says it without agenda, just laying out the option. “But that’s your call. Not mine. Not Milo’s. Yours.”

I sit with that for a moment. The anger is still there, but it’s rearranging itself into something I can use instead of something that uses me. I think about Tyler’s sharp eyes and pointed questions. I think about the nights when none of them are here and the apartment feels too quiet and every creak sounds like a footstep.

But then I think about someone else having access to these feeds besides me and Amy, and my decision is made.

“Take them down,” I say. “If I want cameras in my own home, I’ll install them myself.”

Holden nods. No argument, no negotiation. Just acceptance. “I’ll have them out in ten minutes.”

“Wait.” I catch Holden’s arm before he can reach the first one. “Where exactly are they?”