Page 106 of The Next Lie

She slants a look at me. “Cretin.”

I decide not to touch that one, mostly because I enjoy living.

I cross to the closet and set down the bags. “Close your eyes.”

“I’m not closing my eyes.”

“Pretend to be whimsical for twenty seconds.”

Her expression is completely serious. “I am not that good an actress.”

I open the closet door myself.

Reva goes still.

The closet was empty this morning except for her sad little duffel and a few random articles of clothing. It’s not empty now.

I didn’t have much time, so it’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.

Jeans in a few cuts and washes. Soft shirts hung by color. Tank tops. Sweaters light enough for Louisiana air-conditioning. A black jacket with clean lines. Leggings that have never seen the floor of a carriage house. Pajamas. Socks. Underwear and bras still boxed because even I have limits, though I did choose them with impeccable taste. Boots. Sneakers. A pair of sandals. A few dresses because I love a sundress and I’m optimistic.

Reva says nothing for the longest moment.

For once, neither do I.

She steps past me into the closet and reaches for the sleeve of a dark green sweater. Her fingers move over the fabric with a tentativeness that makes my throat tighten. Then she touches the edge of a folded T-shirt, the row of jeans, the strap of the jacket.

She looks back at me, her eyes glossed over.

Damn it. I’m not built for this.

Give me a woman furious, flirting, insulting me, threatening castration with a cheese knife. I can work with that. Give me Reva silently trying not to cry because someone bought her socks, and I become dangerously close to sniffles myself.

I lean against the doorframe. “Before you accuse me of dressing you like my personal paper doll, I want the record to show I avoided sequins.”

She doesn’t laugh. Her hand stays on the sweater.

“Reva.”

“No.”

I go quiet.

She blinks hard, then looks at me. “Don’t make it a joke.”

That stops me. Not because she says it harshly. She doesn’t. Her voice is soft, which is worse. I let the joke die where it stands.

“All right,” I say.

She looks back at the clothes. “You did this?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When Sonny was dragging you through the Quarter.”

“And everyone knew?”