Page 251 of What We Bury
I make it in seven. I take the stairs two at a time and the door to Sage’s apartment is open, which is wrong in a way that makes my hand go to my hip before I’m conscious of doing it.
Inside, I stop.
The noose is hanging from the ceiling light fixture in the center of the living room. It’s perfectly coiled, a clean wrap. Whoever tied it knew what they were doing—or studied it until they did. It’s swaying in the draft from the open door, a slow, lazy pendulum. Underneath it the room is untouched. Nothing tossed. Nothing broken. Just the noose and the silence.
Knox is standing between Sage and the rope, a pissed-off wall of muscle and murder. Sage is on the couch, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, face white. She’s gone somewhere inside herself, her brain deciding the safest response to horror is to simply leave the building.
“Don’t touch anything,” I say. My cop brain kicks into gear as I analyze the scene. “When did you find it?”
“Right before I called you.” Knox’s voice is granite. “We walked in and it was here. Note’s attached.”
I cross to the noose without touching it. The note is a piece of plain white printer paper, folded once, hanging from the rope by a paperclip. It has block letters in black marker. No flourish, no signature.
YOU’RE NEXT
I pull out my phone and start snapping. I capture every aspect of the apartment. The noose. The note. The room from four angles. The door, the lock, the windows. Evidence collectionon instinct, even though I know none of this is going through official channels.
We’ll murder whoever did this.
Micah comes through the door and stops dead, his eyes going straight to the rope. The color drains from his face. He doesn’t say anything as he moves to the couch and sits beside Sage, pulling her into his side without a word.
Milo arrives thirty seconds later. He takes one look at the noose and his jaw locks. No jokes. No quips.
“Seven coils,” he says, circling wide around the noose. “Same as ours.”
“I can see that.”
“So either someone knows what we do, or this is a coincidence. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Neither do I.
Eli is last through the door. He scans the scene, methodical, controlled. But when his eyes land on Sage, something cracks. He crosses to the couch, crouches in front of her, and puts both hands on her knees.
“Hey, little savage. Look at me.”
She does. Her eyes are glassy but present. She’s not gone—she’s processing. Fighting it, the way Sage fights everything. I watch her hands unclench from her knees and reach for his, and the way he holds them—firm, grounding, deliberate—makes something tighten in my chest that I don’t have time for right now.
“Okay,” I say. “Nobody touches the noose. Nobody touches the note. I’m going to process this like a scene, because that’s what it is.” I pull a pair of nitrile gloves from my jacket—I always carry them when I’m on the job, occupational habit—and snap them on. “Knox. Walk me through it.”
Knox does, in his usual economy. They came back from the diner. Door was locked. No sign of forced entry. Walked in,saw the noose, called me. He checked the apartment—bedroom, bathroom, Amy’s room, the hallway closet. Nobody inside. Windows locked. Fire escape clear.
“So whoever did this had a key,” I say. “Or picked the lock clean enough to re-lock behind them.”
“Or was already inside when we left this morning,” Micah says quietly.
That thought lands like a brick in the center of the room. Sage makes a small sound and Micah pulls her closer.
“Who has keys to this apartment?” I ask.
“Me,” Sage says, her voice thin but steady. “You guys. Amy. Possibly Tyler.”
Tyler.
“Tyler’s gotten in Sage’s face about Brock,” Milo says, reading my mind. “You think he’d go this far?”
“I think he’s an angry guy who thinks he deserves more answers than he has,” I say. “But would he work himself up to this as a scare tactic? Maybe. Hanging’s been all over the news since Hudson was found—it’s possible that’s where he got this idea.”
“But the seven coils,” Milo presses. “That’s specific. Tyler wouldn’t know?—”
