Page 163 of The Next Lie

His face changes slowly, with the precise horror of a man understanding a situation one detail too late.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

I lift a finger. “In our defense, no one invited us to stand here.”

Cal points his mug toward the office. “Is that⁠—”

“Who the fuck all else would it be?” Nash says, patience thoroughly shot.

“And she’s⁠—”

“Yes,” Ever says.

“With him too?”

A pause.

Then I say, “Welcome to the coalition.”

Cal shuts his eyes. “I guess we’re all just doing this, then? Standing outside rooms? Listening? Pretending it’s not awkward?”

“Deeply awkward,” I say.

Nash cuts me a look.

“But emotionally healthy,” I add.

“It is not emotionally healthy,” Cal says.

Another sound comes from inside the office, lower this time, followed by Deacon’s voice. Whatever he says is too quiet to make out, but the tone carries. Dark. Commanding. Absolutely not apologizing for anything.

Cal’s grip tightens around the mug and he stares morosely into at its contents. “I need to start carrying whiskey around with me.”

“At breakfast?” Ever asks.

“At all times.”

Nash pushes away from the wall. “We don’t need to be listening.”

I glance at the closed door.

“Then we should move further away.”

Nash ignores me because he is wise enough to know I become more powerful with attention. He looks down the hall toward the bar, then back at the door, as if weighing whether leaving his office unattended with Deacon inside is worse than standing here with witnesses.

The office goes quiet.

Cal mutters, “Thank God.”

I would not thank anyone yet. Silence after that much noise rarely means people have found restraint. It usually means buttons are being fixed, crimes are being hidden, or both.

A few moments later, the door opens. Reva steps out first.

Her hair is a mess. Her mouth is red. Her cheeks are brighter than the French Quarter at Mardi Gras, and one side of her shirt is tucked badly into her jeans. She stops when she sees us lined along the hallway.

All of us.

Her eyes widen, then narrow.