Page 27 of What We Bury

And sitting on the end of my bed was Amy’s pink clutch.

They were in my room.

I’d stood frozen for a full minute before moving, listening for any other sign—a creak, a cough. Nothing.

Everything was there when I dumped the clutch out: keys, lip gloss, phone. My screen was cracked, but there was no blood. No sand. No sign at all my things were at a murder scene.

My phone was even fully charged.

My gut twisted at the idea of someone digging through my photos, my messages. I thumbed open the text exchange with Amy.

Amy:

you home?? text me when you’re in

Sage???

And under it, a reply. Sent at 12:58 a.m.

A thumbs up sent by a masked man.

And my best friend just accepted it. One emoji. That was all it took to convince her I was safe.

I hated how much access these guys already had to me. It spun me up all day, thinking of every possible way to keep them out of my life, until the complete futility of it crashed down and left me hollow.

“Miss?” The man at the counter blinks at my delay. I apologize, then nod through his repeated order and turn away mid-sentence even though I heard maybe half of it. I’ll probably have to comp his sides and forgo my tip. His comfort is the least of my worries.

Because the clutch wasn’t the only thing I found in my room.

On my dresser, laid out like an offering, was a coral pink dress—identical to Amy’s, down to the small ruffle at the hem. Next to it, a shoebox containing sandals that looked exactly like the ones I’d lost under the jetty.

They’d left them resting there like a threat, a promise that they could walk right into my fucking sanctuary anytime they wanted.

Lucky me, they’d also left a note. Handwritten on the back of an old receipt, it said simply,

You’re welcome :)

I’d stared at it stupidly, not sure if the chill running up my spine was fear or awe. Therapy had trained me to see violence as a thing that happened to me. These men, these sharks circling my life, had flipped that inside out. Now I’m part of the violence, not just a survivor.

And even scarier than that? How comforted I am by the thought.

Another customer calls me over. I take the order with a smile I don’t feel.

By the time I drop the ticket, I have three new tables and two more coffee refills in queue. I want to be connected to this normality. To be okay.

But then I’m back in my bedroom, staring at the clutch, the dress, my stomach twisting.

I try to pour two Cokes, but the ice clinks too loud against the glass. My hands aren’t steady. I nearly overfill one, splashing the rim, and silently curse as I mop it up with a rag.

Get it together, Sage. You need to be normal. Normal is the only thing that can keep you safe right now.

I bring the sodas to the counter. The customer is maybe forty, thinning hair, nervous energy. He reaches for his Coke and our hands brush. I jump, flinch, let go. The glass slides but he steadies it.

“Sorry,” I manage.

“Rough day?”

I want to laugh. Rough day? I killed a man last night and this morning a different man left me a note calling me cute for doing so. Rough doesn’t begin to cover it.