Page 5 of What We Bury

It’s dark under there. Not romantic dark.Darkdark. The kind where shapes stop making sense.

“Come on,” he calls, already heading toward it. “I promise it’s safe. I wouldn’t bring you anywhere that wasn’t.”

A part of me wants to see it. I’ve seen the videos—that glittering, impossible blue. But another part of me is screaming to head home.

“Trust me,” he says, and his voice is warm with promise. “It’s really cool.”

I hover at the edge of the boardwalk, trying to quiet the alarm crawling up my spine.

Amy trusts him. Tyler vouched for him. He hasn’t pushed once tonight—not the drink, not the dance, not anything.

Don’t punish him for the reflex.

“Sage?” His voice echoes off concrete. “You coming?”

I kick off Amy’s jellies and carry them in one hand. The sand is cold under my feet.

“Coming.”

He’s already trotting ahead, mischief leaking through. “Hurry—sometimes it only shows for a couple of seconds.”

For half a wild second, some old reflex catches in my throat: don’t follow, don’t trust, don’t go where the light can’t reach.

I follow him toward the jetty.

The sand under the concrete is wet and cold. The overhang shaves the moonlight to a thin silver line at the edge of the surf. Brock is a silhouette ahead of me—just a shape. I duck under the jetty after him, my eyes adjusting in fits and starts.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Give it a second. Sometimes you have to wait.”

I wait.

A wave rolls in. Nothing. Another. Nothing.

“Brock, maybe we should?—”

There’s a glimmer in the water, and I blink, gasping when a small wave turns blue.

“Oh my god.”

“Told you.”

I spin, searching for Brock in the dark. “Did you see?—”

His hand is in my hair before I finish the sentence, fingers gripping tight, yanking my head back so hard tears spring to my eyes. “Get on your knees, pet.”

For half a beat I think I’ve misheard him. The word lands in my chest like a stone dropped down a well. Knees? Pet?

“What? No! Brock, what are you?—”

“I said get on your fucking knees, bitch.” He shoves my shoulder, and I stumble, tripping on the wet sand.

“Get on your knees.” His voice is strangelyfriendly. That’s the worst part.

This isn’t happening.

“No. I don’t think?—”