Page 142 of Under the Lies

Having Sayer cry into me stirs an uncomfortable lump in my chest.

I don’t like this.

I didn’t ask to feel these things.

They need to stop.

But instead of untangling her limbs from my neck, I weave my fingers into her hair, keeping her close.

And she cries, each tear heavier than the last…until they’re not. They drop lighter and lighter before they stop falling altogether.

When they stop, she pulls away, no longer needing me. A pillar strong enough to stand on her own.

But I’m not strong enough to be without the feel of her, which is why my hand reaches for her waist as she stumbles with unsure footing, to keep her steady.

“What happened?” I ask, quietly. Hopefully gently.

She blinks, eyes puffy and face red, cheeks stained with tear tracks.

“I don’t know,” she whispers and my ears strain to hear, she’s talking so soft. “Someone grabbed me when the lights went out and stabbed my neck with something.”

Her hand goes to her neck as she talks, but I push her hand away, feeling the little knot left behind. It’s small and almost circular, tense under her skin.

I breathe through my nose, careful to not hurt her as I cradle her neck.

“I don’t remember anything after until I woke up here,” she continues, voice shaking. “I didn’t know what was happening at first, but then…then I saw these people. They were wearing masks and hoods and they were fast. So fast. They chased me.” Her eyes are wild. “They chased me, Noah, and I fell. Fell into that grave and—” She sways, and I stumble to bear her weight. I’m about to tell her she can lean on me when I notice her eyes are closing and her breathing is evening out.

I’ve never seen her so defeated, not even when Harlow would tear into her as a fragile teenager. So exhausted.

“It’s okay. You can sleep.” My voice is the gentlest I’ve ever heard it. I kiss the top of her head. “I got you. I got you. You’re safe.”

She nods into my chest. And I bend down to cradle her to it. Making sure the coat is covering her.

“Noah,” Reeve calls, drawing my gaze away from Sayer’s sleeping face. “Look.”

Following where he’s pointing, he directs me to a headstone. Above the grave we just got Sayer out from is a message in dripping red paint.

Here lies Darling Sayer.

Darling Sayer.

Her letter was addressed the same way.

Son of a bitch.

“What do you want us to do?” Gabe asks, seeing the fury on my face.

My grip tightens around Sayer. “Find them.”

It’s time their fun ends.

My eyes open to the sound of yelling. Fighting.

It’s loud, words traded like weapons dipped in malice. My sleep-addled brain is struggling to keep up.

The arguing doesn’t even matter.

Not to me. Not when cool, crisp air is going into my lungs, each breath tasting of winter and salvation.

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