13. Micah #2
Blinking past my thoughts, I walk back to the edge of the hole. Milo is lying flat on his back, arms crossed over his chest like a vampire in a coffin.
“The fuck, man?”
His eyes pop open. “How do I look?”
“Like an idiot.”
“But am I fitting? Is there room for Brock? He’s broader than me. But I’m taller. We need to make sure he fits.”
“Milo, get up.”
“Not until you confirm the dimensions.” He wiggles a little, testing the space. “I think we need another six inches on the left. He had big shoulders. Very quarterback-y.”
I close my eyes and let out a calming breath. “It’s fine as is.”
“No. I’m gonna make it wider.”
He pops to his feet with alarming enthusiasm, grabs his shovel, and starts expanding the hole with the energy of a golden retriever who’s just been told he’s a good boy.
I watch him for a moment, marveling at the way his brain works—chaos and competence in equal measure, all of it wrapped in a package that looks like a harmless hardware store employee and acts like a deranged bunny.
I remember the first time I met him. We’d been doing this for about a year at that point—Eli, Knox, Holden, and me. We had a system. Find the target, do the surveillance, wait for the right moment, make it look like suicide. Clean, quiet, untraceable.
And then Milo showed up.
He’d been watching us for weeks, apparently.
Noticed the rope purchases at the hardware store where he worked.
He’d followed us one night—just to see, he said later, like that was a normal thing to do—and ended up crouched behind a dumpster while we strung up a man who’d drugged and assaulted fourteen women over the course of a decade without getting jail time once.
We didn’t know he was there until it was over. Until the guy stopped kicking and we were about to clear out. Then suddenly there was this guy standing in the alley in painter’s overalls holding a bucket of cleaning supplies and a mop.
“That was really well done,” he’d said, cheerful as anything. “I thought there’d be blood. But also, his belt buckle is reflecting the light. Someone could see it from the street. Do you want me to fix that, or . . .?”
Eli almost killed him on the spot. Knox was reaching for his knife. Holden had his hand on his gun.
But something about the way Milo stood there, completely unafraid, more concerned about logistics than the fact he’d just witnessed a murder, made us pause.
“Who the fuck are you?” Eli had growled.
Milo smiled. “Just your friendly hardware clerk with an eye for detail and a great staff discount. I’d like to help.”
“Do you even care why we killed this guy?” I’d asked, and he’d shrugged.
“Not really. I’m sure you have your reasons.”
He’s been with us ever since.
“Hey, Micah?”
I blink, pulled back to the present. Milo is standing at the edge of the hole now, shovel propped against his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think they’re taking care of her? The others, I mean. Do you think they’re making sure she’s okay?”
“They’re watching her.”
“I know that. But are they looking after her? Because she’ll need someone. When the adrenaline wears off and the shock settles, she’s going to need someone who understands. Maybe . . . Maybe that should be you.”
I look down at the ground. My hands are bleeding a little, the blisters split and raw, and it strikes me that if someone does this job—grave digging—they probably have hands that look like a graveyard. Scars on scars. History etched in callus and nerve.
Milo’s watching me.
“I’m serious.” It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him not sound like he’s winding up for a bit. “You saw her. That girl’s going to climb the walls when she’s alone. She’s going to think about it over and over, until it eats her alive. We can’t let her go radioactive.”
“She’s not our project.”
“She’s not anyone’s fucking project,” he says, annoyed.
“She’s a human being who’s been through shit.
And you’re the only one of us who knows what it’s like.
You understand what happened to her, what she’s carrying.
She’ll need you.” He shrugs. “Knox can protect her. Holden can scare off anyone who looks at her wrong. Eli can brood in her general direction. But you? You can actually help her.”
“And what about you?”
He grins, and the seriousness vanishes like it was never there. “I’m going to bring her noodles and braid her hair and be generally delightful. The guy who takes her mind off everything and makes her feel good. Sacred work.”
“So you’re the dopamine hit a person craves after a trauma bender?” I shake my head. “I’m not sure being the edible glitter in the existential void should be a life goal.”
He places his hand over his heart. “Nawww, you do know me, Micah.”
“Unfortunately. Let’s get this grave finished.”
“Okay. But think about what I said, man. She’ll need you.”
We dig until our hands give out and I’m starting to wish this grave was for me.
Milo is humming “Yellow Submarine” and I want to hit him for it, but I also feel like joining in just to stay awake.
I turn over his words, thinking about Sage.
She’ll need you.
I curse Milo for planting that idea in my head.
“Grave’s done.” Milo tosses the shovel aside and claps his hands together, sending up a small cloud of dust. “Let’s get Brock in the ground and go.
I want to stop for food on the way back.
There’s a truck stop with a twenty-four-hour diner that does all-day breakfast. We can shower there and order a butt ton of hash browns. They’re, like, aggressively good.”
A shower and food do sound good.
I peer into the hole. It’s exactly the right size. Exactly the right depth. Because Milo, for all his chaos, has never once half-assed a job.
After helping him out of the ground, we wrestle Brock out of the SUV and into the grave.
He’s stiff now, heavier than he was, and the smell is starting to turn.
Milo doesn’t flinch. Neither do I. We don’t often dispose of bodies, but we’ve done this enough times that the mechanics are automatic—lower the body, fill the hole, pack the dirt, scatter debris to hide the fresh dig.
By the time we’re done, our stomachs are growling and I’ve never wanted that shower more in my life.
We stand there for a moment, looking at the unmarked grave. There’s no headstone, no marker, no way for anyone to know what’s buried here. In a few weeks, the desert will reclaim this patch of earth completely, and Brock will just be . . . gone.
“You think anyone will miss him?” I ask.
Milo shrugs. “One guy. Stephen.”
“He’s the one who texted at the jetty?”
“Yeah. Guy won’t quit—fifteen messages asking where Brock is, when he’s coming, why he isn’t answering.” He pulls a face. “Clingy doesn’t cover it. I told him Brock needed space to clear his head and went quiet. Doesn’t seem to be taking the hint.”
“Local?”
“Seems like it.” Milo’s quiet for a second, which is rare enough that I look up.
“There’s also a group thread that’s pretty active.
Something about dogs—all this talk about bitches in heat and house training and shit.
” He scratches his jaw. “I genuinely can’t tell if they’re dog breeders—the saddest hobbyists alive—or a bunch of guys being crass about women.
” He pauses. “Either way, I hate them all. Anyone in that rapist’s orbit deserves the rope in my book. ”
I nod slowly. “You think any of them will become a problem?”
“Doesn’t matter if they do. The phone’s fried, the clone’s running the trail, and we’re three hours in the opposite direction. Our tracks are clean.” He shrugs, dusts off his hands, and heads for the SUV.
“Breakfast for dinner?”
“Yeah.” I take one last look at the grave. “Breakfast for dinner.”