Page 28 of What We Bury

“You have no idea.”

I wipe down the counter, then make a circuit of the diner, counting tips, scanning faces, cataloging risk—regulars, tourists, an elderly couple puzzling over the crossword together. No one suspicious.

I shiver, rubbing my hands over my arms, wishing I still had the jacket.

Is it ridiculous that I’m upset they took the fucking jacket? It’s not like I was going to wear it in public. That would be psychotic.

But it made me feel safe.Hemade me feel safe.

Even though I don’t even know his name—the one who wrapped me in it—he seemed kind.

Let’s see. I know K, Holden, and Holden mentioned a Milo. Who were the others? Is K for Killian, Kyle, Kurt? Killer?

Oh god, what if it stands for Killer?

A darker part of me enters the mental conversation.

Don’t lie. You’d be open to Mr. K and Holden slaying your pussy.

At the same time.

I shake my head, trying to flick the intrusive thoughts away. It’s fucking acrobatic how my mind can spiral from existential dread to semi-erotic longing to work panic in fifteen seconds flat.

Holden was . . .

. . . a loaded gun.

. . . asmoking hot, loaded gun.

I clench my jaw, hating that I noticed his perfect smile, the way my brain goes straight to those blue eyes and the way hecalled me wildcat and good girl and how I fucking loved every bit of it.

Jesus.

I’m so fucked up.

“Order up!”

I grab the plates from the window—burger and fries, along with a grilled cheese for booth six—and deliver them with a smile I’ve been wearing like a Halloween mask.

The lunch rush thins out around two-thirty. I bus tables, wipe down menus, roll silverware into napkins. Mindless work. The kind that lets your hands move while your brain spirals.

There’s a guy at the counter I haven’t gotten to yet. He’s been nursing a menu for the last ten minutes, waiting patiently while I cash people out.

He’s got brown hair that’s a little shaggy, and a nice, friendly face. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans, a backpack slumped against the stool next to him. He looks up when I approach with the coffee pot.

“Sorry for the wait.” I flip over his mug. “It’s been crazy in here.”

“No worries.” He smiles. “I’m not in a rush.”

Grateful, I start to pour his coffee, watching the dark stream fill the white ceramic. I glance up at the door when the bell jingles, and that’s when I see him.

Across the street. On the bench by the bus stop.

Autumn eyes.

I’d know him anywhere, even without the mask and dark clothes, even in daylight, even through a plate-glass window smudged with salt spray and handprints.

I’ll never forget how he cleaned blood from my skin.