Page 113 of The Next Lie

History.

A language I do not speak.

My jealousy has no clean shape. It is not romantic exactly, though Deacon’s mouth has ruined my ability to pretend he is still a suspect. It is not sisterly either, because I do not know this version of Delia well enough to claim her.

It is worse. It is the feeling of arriving late to my own life and finding everyone else already living it.

After dinner, I last three minutes in the drawing room before I need air. No one stops me when I step through the French doors onto the pool patio. That means they are either learning or figure they can watch me from a distance.

Possibly both.

Out of spite, I walk beyond the pool, into the garden separated from the pool by a low brick wall and iron gate.

The garden behind Blackwood House is too manicured to be wild and too old to be tame. Brick paths curve between hedges, roses, iron benches, and trees draped in moss. Dim lights line the foot paths, and beyond the low wall that borders it, the marsh spreads dark and flat beneath the evening sky.

I walk until the house noise dulls behind me.

Then I stop near a stone fountain that probably costs more than my ambulance salary and press both palms against the edge.

My sister is alive, but it still feels like a piece of me is missing.

My foster father is here.

Deacon is (still) a problem.

I stare into the water and try to find one feeling I can identify without needing a chart.

The French doors open and close somewhere behind me with a distant click, and footsteps sound. I don’t turn.

“If you’re here to tell me I’m being irrational, save your breath.”

A small, furious meow answers. I turn at that.

Deacon Cross stands on the path holding Homer. The kitten wears a tiny black harness with a thin leash clipped to it. He looks both regal and personally betrayed.

For three full seconds, my brain refuses to process the image.

Then I say, “What are you doing with my cat?”

Deacon looks down at the kitten. “Walking him.”

“That’s not a thing people do. Put him down.”

“It’s a thing I’m doing.”

Homer lets out another offended chirp and tries to chew the harness strap. I stare at Deacon.

Black shirt. Dark pants. Scar through his brow. Rosary ink at his wrist. Murderer vibes. Kitten on a leash.

My life has become deeply weird.

“Why do you have a kitten harness?”

“I bought it.”

“When?”

“Today.”