76. Sage #2
When he’s done with the burrito, Jamie flops into what looks like a food coma.
Amy tells a story about a kid in her class who brought a live frog to show-and-tell and it escaped into the ventilation system.
I do an impression of Holden organizing the refrigerator that makes Jamie laugh so hard he chokes on a bean.
“I can’t believe you live with him,” Amy says, wiping her eyes. “Does he label the shelves?”
“He labels the shelves.”
“Does he label the labels?”
“He has a label maker, Amy. A fancy one. It has settings. And the labels are all color-coded as well.”
Jamie is doubled over. “Stop. I’m going to die. I’m going to die in a Mexican restaurant choking on a burrito and it’s going to be your fault.”
“At least you’ll die happy,” I say.
“At least I’ll die near queso. That’s all I ask.”
The afternoon melts. The margaritas keep coming.
Amy gets all giggly and starts telling Jamie about Dean—carefully, edited, the version that includes French toast and toenail painting but omits the crematorium and the bodies.
Jamie listens with his chin in his hand, asking all the right questions, being his usual warm, thoughtful self.
“He sounds great,” Jamie says. “When do I get to meet him?”
“Soon,” Amy says. “He’s a little shy, but he’s lovely. And he’s tall. Like, really tall.”
“Everyone in the orbit of you two seems tall. Is there a height requirement? I feel like the mascot.”
“You’re the heart of the group,” I say, meaning it. “We’d fall apart without you.”
“Don’t make me cry without a margarita. I’ll have to blame it on real feelings.”
By four o’clock I’m pleasantly drunk and Amy is decidedly more than pleasant. Jamie has consumed nothing but water and Diet Coke and is stone-cold sober, because he takes his designated driver responsibilities extremely seriously.
“Okay, lightweights,” he says, signing the check. “Let’s get you home.”
We drop Amy at Dean’s first. She wobbles out of the car and Dean is at the door before she reaches it—steady, calm, one hand extended to guide her up the steps. She turns and blows us a kiss.
“Love you both,” she calls. “Stab si—” She catches herself. Glances at Jamie. “Saturday sisters! That’s our thing. Saturday sisters.”
“Smooth,” I call back, laughing it off.
“She’s drunk,” Jamie says, grinning. “It’s adorable.”
Dean waves from the doorway. Jamie waves back. Then we pull away.
“We dropped her off at a funeral home,” he says after a while.
“Yes, we did,” I confirm, to which Jamie makes a hmmm noise.
As we drive along, I lean my head against the seat and let the buzz of the tequila settle into my limbs and plaster a goofy smile on my face.
“Today was really great,” I say.
“It was. But you should drink some water,” Jamie says. “There’s a bottle in the glove box. Your guys trusted me with their girl. I don’t want to bring you home sloppy drunk.”
“But they like me sloppy!”
“Oh my God, TMI, girl!”
I reach for the glove box and pop it open. Sure enough there’s a bottle of water inside.
“Oh, wow. I’m giving this Uber five stars.” I crack the seal on it and drink.
“Good girl,” Jamie says, and I glance at him and frown.
“No, absolutely hard pass.”
He laughs. “Not our dynamic?”
“Not even close,” I say, bursting into laughter while he starts singing at the top of his lungs.
He cuts himself off mid-chorus and flicks on his indicator.
“Actually,” he says, “I need to make a super quick stop. Like, two minutes. Maybe three.”
I turn my head. “What kind of stop?”
“I’m house-sitting right now and if I don’t let the dog out, she’s going to destroy the place.”
“Of course. No problem.” I open my eyes and sit up. “Wait. Is that what you do for money? House-sitting?”
“Sure is.”
“Oh, shit. You know, I just realized—I never asked what you do for work. Or where you live. God, I’m the worst friend.”
“You’re not the worst friend. You’ve had a lot going on.” He takes the exit, turning onto a road that runs along the coast. “Most of the people I house-sit for don’t like me having visitors, so I don’t bring it up. It’s fine. I love being a man of mystery.”
“A man of mystery who drives a Civic and makes playlists called Margarita Energy.”
“See? I’m like the West Coast James Bond.”
I laugh, reach for the water bottle and take another long sip. The tequila must have been stronger than I thought, because there’s a heaviness behind my eyes now, and a softness at the edges of my vision.
I blink. The road blurs for a second, then sharpens, then blurs again.
I swipe a hand across my face to try and wake myself up, and I accidentally bump the cameo at my neck.
It reminds me to pull out my phone and text the guys that we’re making a detour so they don’t worry.
When I unlock my cell, the screen is too bright, and I squint at it, my thumb clumsy on the glass.
That’s when I see it.
A text notification. Right above the last group-chat thumbs up after my check-in, received forty-seven minutes ago. I got it while I was at the restaurant, laughing about salsa rankings and label makers.
It’s from Brock’s number.
My heart stops. Literally, physically stops. There’s a gap in the rhythm, a skipped beat that I feel in my throat and my wrists and the pit of my stomach.
Tyler is dead.
His friends are dead.
Everyone who answered Milo’s invitation is ash.
Six weeks of silence convinced us Stephen must have been one of them.
So who the fuck sent this?
And why the fuck haven’t the guys reacted? Anything from this number is supposed to forward to them.
Brock:
Time’s up, bitch. Did you really think it was over?
“You okay?” Jamie asks, glancing over at me.
My mind goes back to the restaurant. To the message he typed at the table, and the phone he turned face down.
My fingers move before my brain has approved the action.
I hit reply.
Me:
***
I press send.
Jamie’s phone chimes.
The sound is small. A default notification tone that makes my entire world tilt.
I look at Jamie. He’s looking at the road, but his posture has changed—straighter, more alert. His hands are steady on the wheel. His jaw is set.
He’s turned into a driveway.
I know this driveway. I know the perfect hedges and the mailbox and the path that leads to the front door. And I know the cream-colored house at the end of it that looks like it belongs in a Netflix special.
Brock’s beach house.
The house where the party was. The house where everything started. The house I haven’t seen since the night I killed a man on the sand below the jetty and five strangers in skull masks emerged from the dark to save me.
“Jamie,” I whisper. My voice is wrong. Thick. The edges of the word dissolving like sugar in water. The heaviness behind my eyes is a weight now—pressing down, pulling me under. The water bottle is still in my hand. Half-empty. Cold.
The water.
“What was . . . what was in this?”
I look at Jamie. His profile in the amber light. The warm eyes. The kind mouth. The face I’ve trusted for months—at the diner, in the booth, over coffee and pie and escape plans and horror movies and pajama night that never happened . . . and . . .
“Stephen?” I force out, even though my words are starting to slur.
He turns to look at me. And the smile on his face is still Jamie’s smile—warm, familiar, the smile of my best friend, the man I called my normal, the part of my life I thought stayed clean.
“Took you long enough, bitch.”
The story continues in What We Become.
Sage survived the noose. She survived the men who came after her. She chose five killers, and they chose her back.
Betrayal doesn’t care about any of that.
The real Stephen has revealed himself. He’s been close enough to watch, learn and wait, and now he’s drugged her and taken her back to the beach house where everything began.
Five men promised they would always find her.
Stephen intends to make sure there’s nothing left to find.
They burned anyone who came for their family in What We Burn.
What We Become is what happens when the monster has already been invited inside.
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