Page 98 of What We Burn

The lack of logic was astounding.

In the end, after I argued loudly with visual aids of my own—which were just me gesturing at the four walls and yelling, “This is not a life!”—the compromise was part-time shifts at the diner, daylight hours only, with someone on watch at all times. A car across the street. Milo monitoring the security cameras he’d secretly installed inside Gull’s. Holden running background checks on every new face that walked through the door. And me, wearing a velvet choker and an apron and pretending everything is fine, which is basically what I’ve been doing since I moved to this town.

As far as they’re concerned, I haven’t had any new texts from Brock’s number. And as long as I keep deleting them before anyone sees them, that’s exactly what they’ll continue thinking. As it is, they’re turning over every rock and getting nowhere. Another message from the same spoofed number isn’t going to help them find whoever’s doing this. I have five obsessive bodyguards. I am never alone for anyone to grab me.

Four days ago I stood in a bar and told those five men that keeping me out of the room didn’t make me safer, it just made me alone. Now I’m the one deciding what they get to know. My reasons are better, obviously. Everybody’s reasons are better.

“So,” Jamie says when I return to his table with the coffee pot to fill the empty mug. “How are you? And don’t say fine. I’ve known you long enough to know that fine is code for I’m drowning but I’ve gotten really good at treading water.”

I pour him a fresh coffee, watch the dark liquid reach the top of the white ceramic before I answer. “Better. Really. The guys have been great. Smothering, but great.”

“Define smothering.”

“Knox follows me to the bathroom.”

“Literally?”

“He stands outside the door. I can see his shadow under the gap.”

Jamie winces. “That’s . . . a lot.”

“It’s Knox. His love language is proximity and the silent elimination of all potential threats within a fifty-foot radius.” I let out a sigh. “Honestly, I’m just glad to be back. I missed this place. I missed the regulars. I missed seeing you every day.”

He gives me a small, quiet smile. “I missed you, too, bitch.”

I shove his shoulder, so he knows I don’t need him to go all sentimental on me. But the words give me a little hit of warmth, right behind my ribs.

“We were pretty scared, you know.” His voice drops so I’m the only one who can hear him.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“That day, when I came to see you in the hospital, I didn’t really know what to say. You were hurt and you were scared and it wasn’t the time. And the same goes for our coffee date—you were still healing and I knew you needed me to keep things light. But now that you’re back into regular life, I need you to know that I . . . I get it. Okay? More than you might think.”

Something cold brushes the back of my neck. “You do?”

“I’ve been there.” He says it simply. “Not the same way. But I’ve been in that dark place where the walls close in and you think the only way out is—” He stops. Swallows. Wraps his hands around his coffee mug.

“Oh.”

I’d told Amy to let him believe I did it to myself—knew that’s what everyone outside my tight circle thought happened. It had seemed so simple at the time, from a hospital bed, with five men between me and the world.

But I’ve spent weeks wrapped in a house full of people who know exactly what happened to me. People who say attack and rope and Brock and Stephen out loud, who never once looked at me like I did this to myself. I’d forgotten. I’d actually forgotten that out here, in the daylight, with the coffee and the regulars and the bell over the door, I’m a woman who tried to hang herself.

That’s the story now. That’s who I am in this town. And I agreed to it.

It’s one thing to choose the lie. It’s another to sit across from someone being kind to you about it.

And the worst part is it makes sense. It makes more sense than the truth. Woman with a history of trauma, new in town, complicated relationship, turns up in hospital with strangulation injuries and won’t explain what happened? The story writes itself.

“Jamie, it wasn’t—” I start, and then I stop. Because what am I going to say? Actually, someone tried to murder me because I helped kill a man, and now it seems his secret boyfriend is texting me from the dead guy’s phone. Even the soft version—someone attacked me—opens doors I can’t walk through. Why was she attacked? Who would do that? Did she report it? Why isn’t there an investigation?

I force a laugh, pinning my mouth into what I hope resembles a smile. “It wasn’t like that. Promise.”

Jamie studies me over his mug, like he’s grading my answer. “I’m not judging. If you ever . . .” He lowers his voice. “If it gets bad again . . . I know I said call me. But I’ve also got a list of therapists who won’t ask questions you don’t want to answer. I mean that. Don’t sit in the dark alone.”

“Thanks, Jamie.” My throat gets thick. “I’m feeling a lot better now. Promise.”

Jamie reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. His palm is warm and dry and his grip is firm without being insistent. “You don’t have to explain it to me. I’m not asking for the details. I just wanted you to know that I see you, and that it doesn’t change anything. You’re still Sage. You’re still my favorite person in this town.” He grins. “Don’t tell your harem I said that. They’ll think I’m competition.”