Epilogue Two
Seth
Two Years Later
The smell of burnt flesh never leaves.
Doesn’t matter how long I spend in the shower, how much citrus cleaner I use, or how many times I replace the fucking filter on the incinerator. It clings. It gets under the nails, into the fibers of your clothes, into your goddamn bloodstream.
I stand over the steel chute, watching the last chunk of meat curl and blacken under the flames. The incinerator roars beneath my fingers, a low, hungry growl that always sounds too eager.
This is my role now.
Beau pulls the trigger.
I erase the body.
We have a system, one that works because it never changes. Beau likes the action, the kill, the chaos, the gleam of adrenaline in the blood-slicked moment. Me? I handle the aftermath. The cleanup. The parts most people don’t have the stomach for.
I am the ghost who makes the bodies disappear.
The cleaner.
Not glamorous. Not easy. But necessary.
Especially when Beau is the one doing the killing.
I glare at the table, where what is left of the guy’s ribs still steams in a shallow pan of blood.
“Would’ve been done an hour ago,” I mutter, peeling off a glove with my teeth, “if you hadn’t carved him up like you were fucking Picasso.”
Beau leans against the far counter like we are on break from a fucking barbecue, wiping down his blade with a piece of the guy’s shirt. “Art takes time, brother. I was in a groove.”
“Yeah? Well, your groove just cost me another shirt.”
He smirks, like he enjoys pissing me off. “I’ll get you another.”
I don’t bother answering. Just reach for the tongs and start shoveling the last of the bones into the fire.
The heat licks up the edges, curling the flesh, blackening it in waves. It is hypnotic if you look too long, how easy it is to reduce a person to ash. Nothing but heat and smoke and bone dust.
The silence settles in again, broken only by the hiss of the furnace.
It should be disturbing, what we do. But it isn’t. Not anymore. We aren’t butchers. We're erasers. Making the world a little quieter, a little safer, one bastard at a time.
And today’s bastard deserves it.
I watch the last piece collapse into glowing charcoal before I swing the incinerator door shut and twist the dial all the way to max. The machine roars back to life behind the steel panel.
I peel the last glove from my hand and drop it into the burn bin before stepping outside into the cold night air.
The first thing I see is the back of the car.
The taillights catch the light spilling out from the garage behind me, the red lenses reflecting across the polished black paint. Chrome runs along the edge of the bumper and the trunk line, clean and bright against the dark finish.
My ‘67 Impala.
I asked Beau and Travis to go get it for me.
The car has been sitting in the underground garage at Travis’s old apartment building ever since we disappeared, tucked away where no one would notice it.
Travis looped the security cameras years ago just in case we ever needed to come back for anything important.
I walk closer, the long hood stretching toward the front of the property, the paint polished enough that the faint glow from the street lights slides across the surface.
Then I notice her.
Brooke sits on the hood.
Her legs are crossed at the ankles. One hand rests beside her on the metal while the fingers of her other hand drum lightly against the hood. The small rhythm echoes softly through the quiet night.
Her eyes stay on me the entire time.
She wears all black, but something about her tonight looks different. Her hair is pulled back away from her face, leaving her features bare. There is no makeup, no armor, no attempt to look like anything other than herself.
Just Brooke.
My gorgeous fucking wife.
I keep walking until I reach the front of the car. My hand slides up to her jaw and I lean in, pulling her toward me before she can say anything. My mouth presses against hers with a hunger that has nothing to do with violence and everything to do with the simple need to feel her there.
When I pull back, she cocks her head, half amused. “You know your sister’s gonna be pissed, right?”
“She’ll live,” I say as I unlock the car.
I move around to the passenger side first and pull the door open for Brooke. The interior light catches the ring on her finger as she slides in and shuts the door.
I circle around the front of the car and slide behind the wheel.
The leather seat creaks under my weight, familiar in a way that settles in my chest. My hands wrap around the steering wheel automatically, the worn grip fitting against my palms exactly the way it always has.
Beau climbs into the back a second later, dropping into the seat behind us while letting out a low whistle under his breath, as if we didn’t just reduce a man to ash.
I turn the key.
The Impala rumbles to life, the engine vibrating through the frame with a deep, steady growl that echoes through the quiet road.
I shift the car into drive and pull away from the curb, the tires crunching over gravel as we head toward the road that cuts through the trees. The headlights slice through the darkness ahead while the engine settles into a smooth rhythm beneath us.
A minute later Brooke reaches across the console. Her fingers slide into mine. I lace our hands together and rest them between us while steering with the other.
The road curves through the trees before the house finally comes into view. Soft light glows through the windows, warm and steady against the dark woods around it.
Before I even bring the Impala to a full stop in the driveway, the front door swings open.
Elise stands in the doorway, her mouth pulled tight in the same expression she always wears when she knows we were out doing something she probably doesn’t want to know about.
But tonight, she isn’t alone.
On her hip is a ten month old baby girl with wild dark curls and storm-gray eyes that cut straight through me every single time I look at her.
She squeals the second she sees us. Her whole body twists with excitement as she points at Brooke and me, little fingers grabbing at the air.
Our daughter.
Mila.
And just like that… everything I’d ever burned, buried, and bled for… is right there waiting.
Elise stands in the middle of the marble foyer barefoot. Her eyeliner wings stretch sharp and her entire presence carries the unmistakable energy of someone who has decided the night is already ruined.
“I told you I needed to be out of here twenty minutes ago,” she snaps while shifting Mila higher on her hip as my daughter squirms and whines for freedom.
Brooke raises both hands immediately. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. They were taking their time cleaning up.”
“Not you, Brooke.” Elise’s tone softens the instant she looks at her. “You can do no wrong in my eyes. This asshole,” she says while jabbing a perfectly manicured finger directly at me, “is the reason I’m late. Again.”
Beau rolls his eyes. “Here we fucking go.” He turns on his heel and walks back toward his car, dragging his phone from his pocket as he answers a call.
I lift both eyebrows and lean against the doorframe, already preparing myself for whatever argument she plans to start next.
“And where exactly do you think you’re going?”
Elise doesn’t answer right away. She gives the most exaggerated eye roll I have ever seen, the kind only a teenager can pull off.
Then she groans and shifts Mila toward me.
“Here. Hold your kid.”
She passes my daughter over like she is handing off a particularly clingy purse. I take Mila, adjusting her against my chest with ease before pressing a kiss into the top of her curls.
She lets out a soft, satisfied sigh and settles immediately, her cheek resting against my chest while her tiny hand grips the front of my shirt.
“I’m going on a date,” Elise announces while already stomping toward the hallway like the discussion is finished.
“What?” I lift my hand and gently cover Mila’s ears. “Who the fuck said you could go on a date?”
Brooke reaches over and smacks my arm, her eyebrows lifting in warning. “Seth. She’s almost eighteen. She can go on a date.”
“Thank you,” Elise calls out while spinning around dramatically. “See? This is why I love her more. She doesn’t try to lock me in a tower guarded by psychos.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “That can be arranged.”
Without even pausing she fires back, “It wouldn’t be any worse than living under your fascist dickhead curfew.”
I open my mouth, ready to respond, but she keeps going.
“You were probably late because you were fucking Brooke in the car or something.”
I lift my hand and flip her off.
Brooke bursts out laughing beside me, barely managing to cover her mouth.
“On any other day you would be right,” I mutter. “But not tonight.”
Elise groans loudly and slaps both hands over her ears. “Oh my God, that’s disgusting.”
Mila squirms in my arms, completely uninterested in the argument happening over her head. Her small hands grab at the collar of my shirt while she lets out a quiet string of sounds that mean nothing and somehow still feel important.
Elise lowers her hands slowly, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Seriously though,” she says, shifting her weight to one hip. “You two disappeared for hours. Again. Do you realize how suspicious that looks?”
Brooke leans against the wall beside me, her arms folding across her chest while she watches Elise with a tired smile. “We told you we had errands.”
Elise snorts. “Your errands always involve coming home smelling like smoke and dead bodies.”
I glance down at my sleeve and brush a bit of soot off the cuff.
Brooke doesn't even bother denying it.
“That is circumstantial,” she says calmly.
Elise stares at both of us for a long moment before shaking her head in dramatic disappointment.
“You two are the most suspicious married couple in the history of suspicious married couples.”
“Yet you still live here,” I point out.