78. Sage #2
Micah stands beside me. Near enough but not touching. Giving me space to fall apart or hold it together, whichever I need, without making the choice for me.
“Thank you,” I say after a minute. “It all just . . . hit me. You know?”
He gives me a small smile and nods. “You don’t need to thank me, baby girl.”
“I do, though. You’re carrying a lot right now. Not just me—Eli, the group, everything. You haven’t cracked once.”
“I’ve cracked plenty. I just do it quietly.” He gives me a half-smile. “Call it the Micah specialty.”
I reach for his hand. He takes it. We stand there in the fading light, my back against the brick building, his shoulder against mine, and for a moment the world is still and the noise in my head goes quiet.
I can almost pretend that everything is going to be okay.
Then his phone rings.
He pulls it out. Looks at the screen. And his whole body goes rigid.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s Eli.”
The name hits me like a slap. My hand tightens on his.
“Take it,” I say.
“Sage—”
“Take it. I’m fine. I’m right here. I can wait for food.”
He searches my face for a beat, then nods. “Don’t move. I mean it—stay right here.”
He steps away—not far, just a little farther along the building, phone pressed to his ear. I catch the low murmur of his voice but not the words.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the brick. The ache behind my ribs flares the way it does every time I think of Eli and the way he left, the things he said to me.
I try to breathe through it but my chest just gets tighter, my thoughts more jumbled.
He called Micah. Not me. Of course not me. Why would he call the woman he called easy and fun and disposable? Why would he reach out to the toy he was done playing with?
Stop it. Stop it. He was lying. I know he was lying. I know—
A whimper.
My eyes pop open and right in front of me is a small dog. Some kind of terrier mix, scruffy and brown. It’s holding one paw up off the ground, and I can see the tremor running through its body. Its big dark eyes are locked on me. A soft, pitiful whimper escapes its throat.
“Hey, buddy,” I murmur. “Hey. It’s okay.”
I take a step toward it. The dog backs off, watching me, ears flat, shaking. I crouch down slowly, extending my hand, making myself small and unthreatening.
“Come here, baby. Let me see your paw. It’s okay—”
The dog bolts, darting toward the row of scrubby hedges that line the building’s foundation. It disappears into the bushes with a yelp.
I glance toward Micah. His back is to me, but I can still hear his voice, low and intent. He’s deeply engrossed in whatever Eli is saying.
“Micah,” I call out. “There’s a hurt dog over here. I’m just going to check on it.”
I don’t wait for an answer. The dog whimpers again from somewhere in the hedge—close, just a few feet in. I crouch down at the edge of the bushes, pushing a branch aside, trying to see into the tangle of leaves and shadows.
“Hey, little guy,” I murmur. “Come on out. I’m not going to hurt you—”
The whimper sounds closer this time. I shuffle sideways, knees scraping the concrete, hands braced in the damp mulch.
The dog has pressed itself flat against the foundation, wedged into a slice of darkness where two bushes meet the brick.
It’s panting, eyes huge and white-rimmed, sides thumping fast. I can see now—its front paw is bent, dark fur matted with something that looks like blood.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I murmur, crouching as low as I can. My heart is hammering, but I keep my movements slow.
Tiny, pathetic sounds twitch from its mouth.
“It’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want to—”
The rope comes from behind.
It drops over my head and cinches tight around my throat before I can scream, before I can breathe, before my brain can even begin to process what’s happening.
I claw at it—rough fiber biting into my fingers, into my neck—and then I’m being hauled upward, my feet leaving the ground, the world tilting as my body swings and my vision starts to spot.
I kick. I thrash. I try to scream but the rope has crushed my airway to a pinhole, and all that comes out is a thin, whistling gasp that nobody will hear. The pressure in my head is immense—eyes bulging, pulse hammering in my temples, blood rushing to places it shouldn’t go.
I’m dying.
My hands claw at the rope, nails splitting against the coarse twist, scraping skin raw.
The pressure is so massive I can’t coordinate my limbs.
My feet scythe backward, toes scrabbling for purchase and finding nothing but air.
I slam into the bricks with a crack that bursts stars behind my eyes.
My tongue lolls useless in my mouth, thick and dumb.
Panic takes over where oxygen has abandoned me—a surge of chemical terror so strong it scrambles every other thought.
This is it. This is how it happens. After everything—after fighting my way out of every hell, after killing a man with my own hands, after surviving every fucked-up thing the world has thrown at me—I’m going to die in a goddamn noose.
I swing.
My vision tunnels. The edges go black, creeping inward, and through the narrowing circle of light I see a face below me.
Looking up.
Eli.
The story continues in What We Burn.
Sage survived the jetty. She survived Brock's hands. She killed a man with her own and kept walking.
A noose doesn't care about any of that.
Someone left one waiting for her, feet from her own front door, then melted back into a town that's already deciding which version of the story to tell. Five men swore to keep her safe. One of them broke her first. And whoever did this is still out there—still close.
They buried the truth in What We Bury.
What We Burn is what happens when they stop.