THE NIGHT WE BURNED: Excerpt

From clinical psychologist S.F. Kosa comes The Night We Burned, a twisting psychological suspense that explores secrets, cult psychology, and cult trauma. Delving into the strange psychological realms of her characters, Kosa weaves together a tight narrative touching on trauma, mental health, and eating disorders. 

The Night We Burned, out now from Sourcebooks, unwinds the secrets and haunting decisions two women made to try and stay alive in The Oracles of Innocence cult—which ultimately goes up in flames —and the repercussions of that fire two decades later.

We are delighted to feature this excerpt!

Chapter One

Portland, Oregon

December 9, 1999

She’d survived another night on the street, but she wasn’t sure how many more she could take. As the 20 bus roared to a halt a few feet away on East Burnside, hope lapped at her like a receding tide—a little weaker each time. The fifth bus since she’d dropped herself onto the curb, it ground to a halt in front of the graffitied thrift shop. After the third bus of the morning, she’d taken to letting the gritty water kicked up by its tires splash all over her shoes. Brown droplets sank into the sodden canvas of her stolen Keds and spread a renewed chill along the top of her feet.

There was a smell to her weariness now: the low, flat, oniony funk of her own body, the acrid, iron backbone of scent wafting from the clothes she’d scrounged in St. Louis and hadn’t taken off since, and the high, stinging note of gray bus exhaust. She wasn’t sure which day it was; it didn’t really matter anyway. And she wasn’t sure what time it was because apparently the sun never came out in Portland this time of year.

A chubby girl in a trench coat carrying two Walmart bags stuffed full plodded down the bus’s steps. At the bottom, she paused to secure her grip on her bags, twisting the loops around her fingers. She stepped out of the way with a murmured apology when she heard an annoyed sigh from behind her. A Black woman in a raincoat tromped down the stairs next, followed by a white, middle-aged man scowling at the sagging, gray sky.

As the man and woman turned in her direction, she tucked her damp hair behind her ears and shook the cup that bore her last two quarters, a Starbucks one she’d dug out of a garbage can, dried foam crust grubby on the rim. The woman in the raincoat sidestepped and kept walking, not even sparing her a glance.

It barely hurt anymore; she’d learned that people who had enough avoided making eye contact with those who didn’t, people like her, as if even seeing her was too much to ask. Didn’t mean she could afford to stop trying to be seen, though. She’d gotten kicked out of the Mercy Lamb shelter for fighting with that bitch who stole her socks, which meant no breakfast. It felt like her stomach was eating itself.

“Sir, I’d be grateful if you have any spare—” she began as the man approached.

“Five if we step off into that alley behind you,” he said in a low voice, stopping directly in front of her. Stained khakis and Timberlands. He was already half-hard.

She stared down at her soggy shoes, frayed and knotted shoelaces. Shook her head.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t done it before, and that was the problem. A little chunk of her died every time, and she didn’t have many vital pieces left.

“You’re an ugly little bitch anyway,” he muttered as he stalked by.

She lowered her head onto her knees and shivered. Gritted her teeth to keep from screaming. Maybe she could get hit by a car. Do something crazy. Mug someone, not that anyone would be intimidated, scrawny as she was. But if she could get hospitalized or arrested, maybe they’d give her something to eat. A place to sleep. God, she just wanted to sleep.

She flinched when someone brushed up against her. It was the girl with the bags, settling herself onto the curb. “I’m Eszter,” she said. “What’s your name?”

She turned her head. Looked at Eszter. Lowered her head onto her knees again. Then held her cup out and feebly shook it.

Eszter stayed quiet. Didn’t move or fidget. Like she was perfectly comfortable sitting there in the cold and damp. “I really would like to know,” she added after a few minutes.

“My name is Christy.” It wasn’t; she hadn’t told anyone her real name since leaving home. Eszter didn’t seem like a social worker—she actually didn’t look any older than Christy—but Christy wasn’t about to risk being sent back home.

“You look hungry, Christy,” said Eszter. She dug in her purse, fake tan leather. Came up clutching a grease-spotted paper sack. “These were made this morning.”

The smell hit, cinnamon sweet. “Christy” peeked inside. “Muffins?”

“Have one. They’re really good. Morning glory.”

Christy glanced at the outside of the bag. No logo. The muffins weren’t wrapped. “You made them?”

“No—a friend of mine did.” Eszter took the bag from her, reached inside, and pinched off a chunk of muffin. She popped it into her mouth and chewed. “Not poisoned or anything. See?” She offered the bag back to Christy.

“I didn’t think they were poisonous,” she muttered, retrieving a muffin for herself—nuts and raisins, not her favorite. But she’d eat headcheese and brussels sprouts at this point. The sugary burst on her tongue dropped her eyes shut.

“When was the last time you had a real meal?” Eszter asked.

Christy shrugged, her mouth still full. She wondered if Eszter was a volunteer, like for a church or some high school community service thing. Just looking for someone to help.

“How old are you?” Eszter asked.

“How old are you?” snapped Christy, shoving the rest of the muffin into her mouth.

“Eighteen,” replied Eszter. “How long have you been on the street?”

Christy wrapped her arms around herself, running fingertips over the bumps of her ribs.

“Eight months for me,” Eszter said quietly. “I left home when I was sixteen.” She let out a dry laugh. “I actually thought it would be better.”

She hadn’t expected Eszter to be homeless, what with the freshly baked muffins—she’d have to find out which shelter doled them out. Christy nodded toward the Walmart bags, which looked like their owner: thin, pale skin stuffed to bursting. Clothes with tags still attached. “So you stole all that?”

Eszter shook her head. “Things are different now. I’m in a really good place. But I remember. I mean, it was only a year ago.” She chuckled and looked around. “I think I once sat on this exact curb, actually. Have another muffin. There are three in there.”

“I don’t want to—”

“Go ahead,” Eszter said, smiling. When she smiled, she was almost pretty, dirty-blond hair framing her moon of a face. “You need it more than I do.”

Christy made short work of the last two muffins. They were more delicious with every bite, a buttery, soft crumb laced with warm spices. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“You heard me say I was on the street, right? Where are you from? I can tell it’s not Oregon.”

“Midwest.” It was more truth than she usually told.

“Really?” Eszter’s hazel eyes were bright. “Me too! I stole money for a bus ticket. Mom had a stash in her drawer.” Those shiny eyes rolled. “Probably hiding it from my stepdad. He was such a…” She shuddered.

Christy grunted. “I stole my mom’s purse, too.” But it hadn’t had anywhere near enough to pay for a bus ticket. She’d hitched. And learned what it took to make it across the country, little shards of her soul scattered from Chicago to St. Louis, Kansas City to Denver, Boise to Portland.

—

S.F. Kosa is a clinical psychologist with a fascination for the seedy underbelly of the human psyche. Though The Quiet Girl is her debut psychological suspense novel, writing as Sarah Fine, she is the author of over two dozen fantasy, urban fantasy, sci-fi, and romance novels, several of which have been translated into multiple languages. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and their (blended) brood of five young humans.

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Category: On Writing