Page 30 of What We Bury

He shakes his head. He doesn’t smile, but he continues to watch me calmly. “I’m here to check on you.”

Holy shit.

That voice is something else. So deep and sexy that it reverberates through my body, pooling low in my belly and tightening my nipples.

I can’t even look him in the eyes. I fold, instantly, the bravado draining out of me like a popped balloon. “You checking if I’m going to crack?”

He cocks his head, like he’s not sure if I’m making a joke or confessing to being a total fucking mess. “You did what you had to do.”

The words hit me square in the chest—heavy and unexpected. I bark a stupid, sharp laugh. “What Ihadto? No. I’m pretty sure that was a complete breakdown of all morals.”

He watches me, those weirdly gentle eyes carving right through my soul. “You think he didn’t deserve it?”

I mean to scoff, but it comes out as a breathless sigh. “I . . . No. He did.”

“So the problem is . . .?”

“You guys were already there. Had the rope. The . . . plan. All I did was lose my shit. Fuck up your neat little operation.”

A faint smile. Or maybe it’s a muscle twitch. “You didn’t fuck up anything.”

“Bullshit.”

“Man got what he deserved.”

I want to argue. I want to be mad at him, or at least scared, but I’m just tired. “So what? You guys are dealing out vigilante justice? You watch, wait, and swoop in like a bunch of superheroes? Except instead of capes, it’s skull masks and combat boots?”

“Superheroes don’t do enough. They hand the scum to judges who hand them back.”

I open my mouth but he steps closer.

“We don’t let them go. We put them where they belong. Six feet under.”

And for some reason, that hits. I have to look away, stare at the oil slick rainbow in the gutter. “You’re insane.”

He shrugs. “What time do you get off work?”

“What?”

He says it again, slower. “What time do you get off?”

I look at him. The bland brick back wall of the diner. The moss-green dumpster. The two flies suiciding into a bug zapper hanging near the back door.

I blink.

“Eight.” I don’t know why I tell him. Maybe because he already knows where I live. Maybe because pretending I have privacy feels stupid now.

He nods. “I’ll walk you home.”

TEN

KNOX

“Okay.” Sage steps out of the diner at 8:03 p.m. and stops in front of where I’m waiting out front. “Let’s walk.”

She doesn’t wait before she’s rocketing down the street, canvas bag over her shoulder, head held high.

I’m beside her in a few strides. She’s so fucking small that I swallow up the distance in two steps.