Page 43 of What We Bury

“What’d she do?”

“Stalked him. Cut the phone lines to his house. Put shrimp shells in the wall of his office. Like, full psycho ex energy.” He wipes his brow with the back of his arm, leaving a mud streak. “He had to quit his job and move to some trailer park in the middle of nowhere to escape her.”

“Jesus,” I say. “Did he go to the cops? Get a restraining order?”

He scoffs, like the question is an insult. “He tried. But no one ever catches my mom. Dude lost his mind trying to prove she was behind it—his friends, his boss, all thought he was nuts. Last I heard, he’s in a psych facility somewhere in Nevada. Claims he’s being haunted by the ghost of his own libido.”

I snort.

Milo takes a long drink of water then jumps back into the hole. Ever since he and Holden collected me from Unholy Desires at the end of my shift, somewhere past two in the morning—Brock riding in back in a way that’s going to haunt me forever—we haven’t stopped.

First job was to switch him into the SUV, pack him in ice, and split up so we could dump his car and phone at the airport. Holden helped with the print wipe down then took his own car home from there. Milo drove us out to the desert. Three hours of empty highway while I slept and he didn’t, because the man runs on spite and caffeine instead of rest. We’ve been digging since midmorning, and he hasn’t stopped once.

I’m dead on my feet.

Graves take a hell of a lot longer to dig than TV shows and movies lead you to believe.

“How deep you think we need this?”

“Deeper.”

“Okay.” He grabs his shovel and starts digging again. “I’m going to ask her.”

I search my exhausted brain for clues as to what we’re talking about. “Oh. Your mom?”

“What? No. The murder kitten. Or kitten. I’m workshopping.” He starts digging again. “I want to get her take on noodles. She could be a rice girl, which is fine. I respect rice. I just want to wine and dine her, you know?”

“Murder kitten?” I stare at him. The desert stretches out in every direction—empty, silent, indifferent. And behind us, the SUV sits with its engine off, Brock’s body in the back wrapped in a tarp, water dripping slowly from the trunk onto the dusty sand. I bet there isn’t any ice left now.

“It’s a term of endearment.” Milo shrugs, like that’s a normal way to refer to a woman and not evidence of a head injury. “She’s fierce and cute like a kitten, but bloodthirsty.”

“I’m pretty sure what she experienced from Brock, and what she did after, comes under the banner of being fucking traumatized. I’m not sure you should be pushing your attentions on her.”

“Nah, shared trauma is a great relationship builder. All the best couples have it.”

“That’s . . . not even remotely true.”

“Name one happy couple that doesn’t have shared trauma.”

I open my mouth. Close it.

Milo grins triumphantly. “See? Shared trauma. It’s basically Cupid’s arrow, except instead of a little winged baby, it’s the screaming void of human existence. Very romantic.”

I slide back into the hole and get back to digging. There’s no point in arguing with Milo when he gets like this. He’ll just keep talking until you either agree with him or walk away, and walking away isn’t an option when we’re three feet into a six-foot deep hole and there’s a body that needs burying.

“She’s pretty, though, right?” he continues, because of course he does. “Like, objectively. I’m not being weird. I’m making an observation. Like, I know the blood and screaming kind of threw off the aesthetic, but if you squint?—”

“She’s gorgeous,” I agree, and that stops him for half a second. He blinks, shovel stilled halfway up.

“Yeah?”

“Hard not to notice.”

Milo grins wider. “See, this is what I’m talking about. We could double-date. Triple, because Holden isdefinitelyinterested—and I don’t mind sharing. Oh! Eli called her ‘our girl,’ remember? And Knox was extra broody while Eli was cleaning her up. Maybe the six of us could do a murder mystery weekend. Add some spice.”

I laugh—can’t help it. It feels good to laugh. The sound echoes sharp in the desert air, then dies and leaves the world unchanged. “Let’s get through this first, Casanova.”

“Copy that.”