Page 265 of What We Bury

Maybe that’s why he only puts the heart in hers. Knox has never once believed loving her was dangerous. None of them do. They think the wall they create is what keeps her safe—the shifts, the sight lines, the five of us stacked between her and the dark. Love on the inside, the threat on the outside, and as long as we hold the line, she’s fine.

And for twenty-seven days shewasfine. But the moment that rope was hung from her ceiling, that wall we’ve held since the jetty proved to be only one thing—danger.

We are the danger.

And we can’t protect her.

We don’t even know who or what we’re protecting her from. Tyler, maybe—Milo’s sure of it. Or the man named Stephen who’s been lighting up a dead man’s phone since the night we put Brock in the ground. Or someone we’ve never once looked at. We don’t even know if Tyler and Stephen are one man wearing two names or two separate problems circling the same girl. Five days of work and all we’ve got is a profile and a feeling and not one fact that would hold.

Here’s the only fact I trust anymore: she was safer before us.

Brock was ours. Assigned, watched,ours. And while we were lying in wait—dotting all our i’s and crossing our t’s—he got to her. If we’d moved a week sooner she’d never have been at that party. Never had his blood on her hands. Never met a single one of us.

We were supposed to keep our distance. She was a loose end—a witness, a liability, a thing to manage and walk away from. That was the job. Instead we made her ours, and now there’s a rope with her name on it and a man somewhere who knows exactly how to reach the thing all five of us love most.

The others will keep stacking the wall higher. More shifts. Tighter sight lines. They’ll love her in the open and call it protection.

It isn’t protection. It’s bait.

And if not one of them is willing to do the thing that actually keeps her breathing, then I will. Whatever it costs.

I drink the rest of my latte and say nothing. Because what is there to say? My mind is made up.

The front door opens and Milo breezes in with Micah behind him, a box of donuts under one arm.

“Good morning, my beautiful family of misfits and murderers.” He drops the box on the bar, pops the lid, and slides it toward Sage. “Eat. You skipped breakfast.”

“I’m on my second coffee. I’m good.”

“Coffee is not breakfast. Knox, back me up.”

Knox doesn’t even look at him. “She can ingest what she wants.”

“Unbelievable. Living together for less than a week, and he’s already whipped.” Milo grabs a cruller and takes an enormous bite. “Micah, you’re my only ally. Tell kitten she needs food.”

“I’m also whipped.” Micah slides onto the stool beside Sage and steals a donut hole from the box. “But she should eat.”

Sage rolls her eyes and picks up a glazed. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Milo says through a mouthful of pastry.

Holden comes through the door last, fresh off the night shift, his car keys in one hand, leather jacket over the other arm. He scans the room and his eyes land on Sage. Something in hisexpression settles. He crosses to the bar, drops a kiss on the top of her head, and takes the coffee Knox has prepared for him.

“Odin?” Holden asks me, holding his mug up to his mouth.

“Should be here any minute.”

As if summoned, the side entrance opens and Odin walks in. He doesn’t announce himself—never does. Just materializes in the room with the quiet authority of a man who owns every surface he touches. He nods at Sage—brief, appraising—and then looks at me.

“Let’s do this, gentlemen,” he says, nodding toward the backroom.

We go.

Odin takes a seat on the couch, holding his hand out for the small espresso cup Knox hands him. The rest of us sit around haphazardly. I sit across from Odin, Holden sits beside me. Milo drops onto the opposite end and rests his tablet on the arm of the couch. Micah settles next to him. Knox moves to stand by the door, arms folded.

“Tell me what we know about this threat,” Odin says the moment we’re in place.

I give it to him straight. No prints on the noose. No prints on the note. No DNA. No footage. Nothing. We looked into the building’s maintenance contractor on the chance someone borrowed his master key, but he was alibied, clean. Another dead end.