Page 204 of What We Bury

“What about the names you floated—I Can’t Believe It’s Not Gutter? Snakes on a Lane? Britney Spares?” I count each of his offered team names off on my fingers. “Just admit you fucked up.”

“In mydefense,” he says, and I watch the bluster come down all at once, the way a condemned building comes down, with a little puff of dust, “you never asked for clarification. Look, the deposit is non-refundable, and there areballs.” He bounces the wood in one hand. “There’s grass, fine, sure, but what’s not to like?”

Micah’s voice arrives behind me. “You got it wrong, Milo. Own it.”

He takes the beer out of my hand without asking and drinks half of it in one pull. That about sums up this whole afternoon.

Milo sighs, shaking his head. “Assumptions have made an ass out of you lot. It’s not my fault.” He huffs and heads over to talk to Cliff, admiring his trophy pins.

We’re quiet for a long beat, sharing the beer between us.

“So . . . lawn bowls,” Micah says finally, tugging on the hem of the colorful bowling shirt Milo got us all to wear. He glances at all the retirees in white, who are eyeing us suspiciously.

“Lawn bowls,” I confirm.

He takes another pull of my beer as Milo heads back our way. “Fuck it. It’s a beautiful day, and we’re already here.”

“Yes!” Milo fist pumps, rejoining us.

“Eli here yet?” Micah asks.

“Not yet.”

He nods, glancing around the green before sighing.

“You okay?” I ask. Milo’s already wandered off again, interrogating a passing octogenarian about bias and curve.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’ll be okay.”

That’s not the same thing and we both know it. I let it go, because Micah’s the kind of man who hands you the truth in his own time, and after the breakdown Eli caused yesterday, there’s enough raw skin in this group already without me pressing a thumb into it.

Last night was bad. I got there fifteen minutes behind the others and walked into the kind of quiet that only comes after the worst of something. Milo had Sage in his lap on the couch and didn’t have a joke in him, which is how I knew shit had gone down. Knox stood at the window, still as a statue—and withKnox, still isn’t calm. It’s a man deciding whether to go drag the problem back by the collar or make it disappear permanently.

Eli is a big problem. An arrogant, self-serving one. If he thinks having a relationship with Sage is an issue, he should stay the fuck away and let her be happy as she is.

But he isn’t doing that. He’s skulking around, feeding her breadcrumbs. And I’m fighting the urge to punch him in his self-righteous face.

I love you, dude, but you’ve got to pull it together.

Milo waves us over to a printed sheet taped to the clubhouse window. GLENVIEW SOCIAL PENNANT—GREEN 2, RINK 3—2:00PM. Underneath, in the spot for the visiting team, someone has handwritten our name off Milo’s booking form.

BALLS OF FURY

“Lead, second, third, fourth, skip,” he says, pointing down the list. “I lead. You’re second, Holden. Micah’s third. Knox is fourth if he ever rejoins the living. Eli’s skip.”

“Why’s Eli skip?”

He looks at me like I asked why grass is green.

“Because he’sEli, Holden. The skip stands at the far end, tells everyone what to do, bowls last, and acts like the fate of the world rides on every shot. It is the single most Eli job in the entire sport.”

Across the rink, the opposition has assembled, and I assess the threat out of habit. Four retirees. The skip’s a small, upright woman in pressed whites and a visor, eighty if she’s a day, with the flat eyes of a sniper. Beside her is a face I know—Walt Brennan, thirty years on the precinct front desk. He retired the year I made detective, capable of reducing a grown cop to tears with one look over his reading glasses. He clocks me. Nods. The nod saysI know exactly who you are, son, and I’ll still beat you in straight ends.

“I know that guy,” I tell Milo.