Page 197 of What We Bury

“Intense?”

“That’s generous.” She exhales through her nose. “Brock left a voice message for his parents during the week.”

My hand tightens around the bottle. For half a second, I forget how to pour.

Amy doesn’t notice. “I thought knowing he made contact would help, but Tyler’s been even worse. I don’t know what to do.”

I focus on pouring the wine so she doesn’t see my face. I’m reeling. I know the Hangmen are into some pretty heavy shit. But how did they get Brock to make a phone call from the dead?

“I’m sorry, Amy.”

“Don’t be, it’s his thing to get over.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. This”—she gestures vaguely toward her bedroom—“is a lot. And I keep telling myself he’s stressed—he misses his friend, work, whatever’s eating him. I’ve been telling myself that for weeks now.”

She exhales. “But the fight I had to have with him just to get him to agree to tonight . . .”

“What did he say?”

Her mouth twists. “That I was picking you over him. That if I needed space from him, maybe that said everything about us. Then he asked if I was planning to spend the night telling you all our private business.”

She looks down at her glass. “I’m getting tired of the sound of my own excuses.”

I hand her the glass and she takes a long, deep drink. I want to tell her that her boyfriend’s instincts are right, that Brock didn’t leave town. But then I also want to point out that the man she’s sharing a bed with is more invested in a rapist’s whereabouts than in making her feel comfortable in their relationship. I can’t do either of those things. So I just say, “I wish it was different for you. And if you want, you can stay inmy room tonight. Or I can sleep on the couch. Or we can make a plan for tomorrow. Whatever feels easiest.”

Also, your boyfriend’s a judgmental prick.

“Thanks.” She takes a sip. “I don’t know. I’m starting to think Tyler and I might not be—” She stops herself. Shakes her head. “Sorry. That’s not your problem.”

“Amy, you can talk to me.”

“I know. I just . . .” She sets the glass down and crosses her arms. “He’s not who I thought he was. Or maybe he is, and I just didn’t want to see it.” She forces a smile. “But enough about me and my questionable taste in men. At least one of us has figured out the dating thing.”

There it is. The door closing gently before I can put my foot in it. I recognize the move because I’ve used it a hundred times.

I’m about to respond when the front door opens and Knox walks in—massive and unhurried, scanning the room by habit.

I stop breathing.

Knox takes in the scene in about half a second—me in the kitchen, Amy at the counter, two glasses—and gives me a barely perceptible nod before moving toward the hallway. Business as usual for Knox, except nothing about the room has gone unread.

“What the actual fuck, Sage?” Amy whispers as her eyes track the giant of a man.

Then they drift back to the door just as Eli appears.

I stiffen.

He’s here.

Amy makes a sound.

“Eli?” she says. “What are you doing here?”

I glance between them.

Oh, fuck.

FIFTY-FOUR

SAGE