7. Sage
SEVEN
SAGE
At some point, I must’ve passed out, because the next thing I know, I’m being yanked up from a darkness so thick that for a second, I’m not sure I’ve woken up at all.
My brain is a projector with a jammed reel, playing the same frames on a loop. Moonlight, a belt buckle, rope, masks, blood—so much blood—a knife in my hand, the wet give of flesh, his body jerking, my voice howling, arms around me.
You’re okay—
I roll onto my side with a groan, pulling a pillow over my head.
Go to sleep! Be normal!
“Fuck.”
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling as the darkness turns into a predawn gray. My entire body hurts. And if I try to close my eyes again, all I see is the knife going in.
And to top it all off, I have to go to work today. I really don’t have it in me, but I also can’t afford not to.
Fucking capitalism.
With a discontented groan, I drag myself out of bed, spine popping, every joint creaking. The memory of last night wants to grow teeth and eat my day, but I don’t let it. Not yet.
I throw on jeans and a clean shirt and scrape my hair into a ponytail so tight my temples throb. There’s a slight bruise along my jaw, so I cover it with concealer then end up doing a full face of makeup when I can’t get the color to even out.
When I finally open my bedroom door, the smell of coffee and eggs hits me and I freeze.
Amy and Tyler are at the kitchen table. Tyler’s wearing his undershirt and the same jeans from last night, his hair going four different directions.
Amy’s in his button-down, bare legs tucked under her, a mug cradled in both hands.
They look up, and Amy bursts into a wide smile.
“Morning! You look pretty! I made eggs. Well, Tyler made eggs. I supervised.”
“She burned the first batch,” Tyler confirms. “I staged an intervention.”
I force a smile. My face creaks with the effort. “Thanks. It smells amazing.”
I pour coffee and grab a plate, sliding into the chair across from them. The coffee is too hot but I drink it anyway, letting the burn anchor me to this kitchen, this table, these two people who have no idea. No freaking clue I murdered their friend.
“So,” Tyler says, his tone a little teasing. My spine goes rigid. “Brock never came back last night.”
Whoomp, there it is.
Fuck!
They know.
How do they know?
They can’t know.
I take another sip, forcing myself to be calm.
There’s no way they know. No way in hell.
I arch my eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Amy giggles. “You two seemed to really hit it off. I was totally expecting him to walk out of the bedroom with you.”
The coffee goes rancid in my mouth. I force myself to swallow, to act normal.
“Yeah, we, ah—” I lick my lips, buying time.
“We walked around the block, talked a bunch. Then I came home.” I keep it light, leaning into the sleepy-girl routine to sabotage any real scrutiny.
“He was a total gentleman, wanting to get to know me. I’m kind of salty about it, he said goodbye to me at the front door and didn’t even try to kiss me. ”
The memory of his mouth on mine, of his hands on my skin, makes me physically ill.
“Are you telling me he didn’t go back to the party?” The lie slips out too easy.
Murderer.
“Nope.” Tyler lifts one eyebrow. “Story going around was something came up. By the end of the night everyone just figured you two hooked up.”
I shake my head. “Maybe he crashed somewhere else or went to a bar?” I set down my coffee and focus on my eggs. I stab a mouthful and force myself to chew and swallow. To not throw the damn thing up.
Amy shrugs, but there’s a little wrinkle between her brows. “Maybe? I mean, it’s not out of character for him to randomly disappear. Right, babe? Remember that first time I met your friend group? He got some phone call, said he needed to take it outside and just vanished for like a week?”
Tyler shrugs. “Sure. But who bails on their own party? Guy just landed some massive client—the whole night was a celebration for him.”
“He’s lucky we won’t hold another great vanishing act against him.” Amy slurps her coffee and hums happily. “You should try texting him again, Ty. I’m sure he’s just hungover somewhere regretting all his life choices.”
“Yeah, totally.” I make the appropriate faces but the air in the room tightens a fraction. Tyler watches me over the rim of his mug, his pale blue eyes narrowed slightly.
I force a smile. “Invite him over for breakfast, tell him—” I swallow, forcing the words around the lump in my throat. “—I’d love to see him again.”
Tyler’s expression eases, but I catch the way he watches me as I scoop up another bite of egg. Amy, though, god bless her, seems satisfied. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. I have to fight every instinct not to jerk away.
“I’m so glad you came last night,” she says.
“It was fun, right?” Her face softens. “I did freak out a little when you went quiet, though. You said you’d text when you got in, and when you didn’t, I almost called.
Tyler told me to leave you alone—said you were with Brock, you were fine.
” She wrinkles her nose. “So I just sent a text instead. Hope that’s okay.
You wrote back so fast I figured you were having way too good a night to talk to me. ”
I wrote back.
The bottom drops out of my stomach.
“Absolutely. I had a great time.” My voice is steady. My hands are steady. My face is steady. I am a steadiness machine. “Your friends are really cool, Tyler.”
Amy starts in on weekend plans—farmers’ market, boozy lunch. I nod along, making sounds at the right intervals.
But inside, I’m freaking the fuck out.
There is a dead man somewhere. Five men in skull masks watched me turn him into minced meat. I’m sitting at a breakfast table eating eggs and drinking coffee and pretending I didn’t strike the final blow on their friend.
And someone wrote back to Amy as me.
I didn’t touch my phone last night. I know I didn’t—I didn’t text, didn’t call, didn’t do anything but run home with blood drying on my body. So where the fuck is it?
I try to picture where I last saw it. Nightstand, empty. Counter, empty. I don’t have my phone. I haven’t had it for hours and didn’t even notice—and someone, somewhere, used it to tell my best friend I was fine. Fuck!
Don’t. Not here. Not in front of them.
I eat every bite then wash my plate and put it in the rack, scrubbing it longer than it needs because my hands need something to do that isn’t shaking. After a beat, I force myself to sound light as I announce, “I’m off to work.”
My shift doesn’t start until noon, but I can’t be here any longer. Where the fuck is my phone?
Amy opens her mouth—probably to offer to drive me, or do one of the thousand small, kind things Amy does because she’s Amy and she doesn’t know that kindness is a language I’ve forgotten how to speak.
I don’t give her the chance.
“See you tonight,” I say, with a quick wave. “Have fun at the markets.”
I’m already through the door and pulling it shut behind me by the time she gets a word out.
Halfway down the external stairs, I hear Amy’s voice through our open window. “Wait! Sage—you don’t have your purse! And—your uniform—”
That stops me cold.
Fuck. My purse.
Every ounce of borrowed calm unspools in a second. I take a rapid inventory. I had it at the party. Then I slung it over my shoulder for the walk home. Where did I—?
Blood rushes to my face.
The jetty.
The last time I had my purse was when I followed Brock down to the water. I didn’t carry it home. I have no memory of picking it up after. Which means it’s still there, wherever it landed in the chaos—with my ID, my house keys. My phone.
The phone someone answered last night.
Shit.
Fuck.
I break into a run.