Page 135 of The Next Lie

I nod once. Quiet. Obediently shaped. “Yes, Mother Superior.”

The door opens by someone on the other side before I touch the knob, and the night air comes in, warm and wet. I step outside.

Behind me, Mother Superior says, “Do not confuse old affection with current protection, Deacon.”

I pause, but only for a second. Then I continue down the steps.

The gates open when my car reaches them. They always do. The house recedes in the rearview mirror, bright and elegant and rotten through every brick and beam.

I keep both hands on the wheel.

Ruben.

Chicago.

Delia, wet and shaking.

Reva’s name in Mother Superior’s mouth.

She knows enough to be dangerous. Maybe not all of it. Maybe not the exact moment I chose a child behind a closet door over the order I had been given.

But she knows a ghost is breathing.

She knows the ghost has walked back into New Orleans.

And she has reminded me, with every soft word and every polished smile, that unfinished work does not remain unfinished forever.

Nash is right. I have to get this under control. Fast. Whatever lines I drew before were insufficient.

I drive back toward Blackwood House with whiskey in my blood, chlorine drying on my clothes, and Reva’s hurt eyes fixed behind my ribs.

The thing is…if Mother Superior wants my little ghost buried again, she will have to go through me first.

This time, I will not be quiet about it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

REVA

By morning, I have made several bad decisions.

The first is going downstairs in nothing but a T-shirt and underwear.

In my defense, the T-shirt is long enough to qualify as clothing if everyone agrees to be mature about it. Also, it is one of the new ones from the closet, soft and black and mine, which still feels strange enough that I keep tugging at the hem like it might disappear if I stop checking.

The second bad decision technically goes along with the first one—coffee before pants—but who bothers with pants before coffee?

The third is letting Shiloh catch me in the kitchen.

He finds me standing on my toes, reaching for a mug on the top shelf because apparently Blackwood House was not designed for short people. I hear him behind me a second before his hands settle at my waist.

“You know,” he says near my ear, “we do have step stools.”

“I don’t trust furniture with names like step and stool. If it was called something worthy like Bill, I might’ve used it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I name the…micro ladder.”

His hands slide around to my stomach, pulling me back against him. He is already dressed, much the same as when I first met him on the highway, in a pair of worn jeans and a T-shirt, his hair slightly damp. His mouth is far too close to my neck.