Page 99 of What We Bury

“We have eyes on her at all times,” I say. “Rotating surveillance. She’s cooperating.”

“Cooperating.” He says the word like he’s tasting it, checking for poison. “Explain that.”

“She’s not a threat.” Micah’s voice is level, but I hear the wire under it. “She’s like us. The system failed her, broke her, and that rage doesn’t go anywhere until you put it into something. I say we bring her in. She’s one of us now, whether we planned it or not.”

Odin’s gaze shifts to Micah. Holds. Something passes between them that I can’t read.

“One of you,” he says slowly. “That’s a significant claim.”

“She earned it.” Holden this time, with that lazy drawl that means he’s more invested than he’ll admit. “You should have seen her, Odin. Girl’s got teeth.”

“I’m sure she does.” Odin leans back. “And who has her now, while you’re all here?”

“A friend of mine,” I say. “Someone I trust. He knows enough to watch the building and call me if she moves. Nothing else.”

“Which friend?”

I hesitate. This is the part I’ve been dreading—not because I’m ashamed of it, but because explaining it means showing him something I kept off the books. A thing that exists outside the Hangmen, outside this room, outside everything Odin controls.

“His name is Dean. I met him at a support group for people connected to victims.” I keep my voice even. “He runs the funeral home on the edge of town. There’s a crematorium.Licensed, clean. If you approve it, he could be useful to us. Easier disposal, if anything ever goes sideways.”

The room’s gone very quiet. Even Milo isn’t fidgeting.

Odin processes this with the same cool efficiency he applies to everything. “You’ve been cultivating an asset.”

The door to the lounge opens.

Loki walks in. He’s blond and shorter than Odin by an inch, his mouth set in a small, sarcastic smirk. If Odin is the father you’re petrified to let down, Loki is your wine aunt—he swoops in wearing outrageous suits tailored within an inch of their life and is guaranteed to say something completely inappropriate.

Today it’s a plum suit with a black paisley satin pattern, a bright splash of red in the pocket square, a single pearl in one ear. I’ve seen Loki maybe two dozen times in four years, and the outfit’s been equally impressive every time.

“Apologies, darlings.” He glides—no other word for it—onto the stool to Odin’s right. “Did I miss anything delicious?”

Odin ignores his theatrics. “Eli was just telling us about Dean McMahon.”

Loki’s smile widens. Just a fraction. The fraction is enough.

“Was he.” He shuffles until he’s settled, blond curls bouncing. “Do go on. Little Dean’s quickly become a favorite of mine.”

I don’t speak as awareness punches me in the gut.

Odin knows all.

Loki takes pity on me, dropping the dramatics. “He’s been on our radar fourteen months, Eli. We’ve been watching him a long while.”

The room is very quiet as they watch me process.

I’ve spent years building the architecture that enables what we do. I plan the operations. I assess the targets. I’ve been working under the assumption that I sit at the head of a small, contained unit—that what I bring into the operation is mine, andwhat stays outside it is also mine. That the line between the two is a lineIdraw.

It hits me that the Norse Gods might be pulling every string I thought was mine.

Fuck.

“Fourteen months?” I repeat. The words come out level but I don’t recognize the voice as mine.

“Mm.” Loki picks up Odin’s glass without asking and takes a sip. “Sweet man. Seems to want what we all want—justice. We thought you might bring him to us eventually, and you did, and here we all are.” He smiles. “Better late than never, as my mother used to say before she set fire to her second husband’s car.”

Holden snorts. Covers it with a cough.