Page 165 of The Next Lie

Deacon looks at her for a long second, jaw tight. “She called you a mistake and said mistakes can’t be allowed to live.”

Reva’s face goes still.

I hate when she does that. Anger suits her better than stillness. Stillness means she is taking the hit somewhere no one can see.

Cal steps closer. “Reva.”

She shakes her head once. “No, don’t… I need…to process.”

He stops. Good man. Slow learner, but he gets there.

Nash looks at Deacon. “And now you need somewhere to go because…what, you threatened her?”

“No, not openly. In fact, I told her I’d take care of the problem. The problem is that I prevaricated when she asked me to run back the events of that night, and now she doesn’t trust me, and I don’t trust her, and she knows I don’t trust her because she’s not a fool…and…there’s no walking any of that back. I don’t know when she’s going to strike.”

Nash is nodding. “So you’re not completely out, but you’re not completely in, either. This presents interesting possibilities.”

“Doesn’t it, though.”

Nash studies him for several seconds. The two of them have enough history and blood between them that half the hallway could drown in it. Finally, Nash looks at me.

“Go home and fix him up the east room.”

I blink. “I beg your pardon?”

“The east room.”

“You’re ordering me to make up a room for Deacon Cross after he desecrated your office with our girl?”

Nash’s stare flattens.

I sigh. “Fine. But I’m choosing the towels, and I’m giving him shitty ones.”

“Shiloh.”

“I heard you. East room. Clean sheets. Possibly some sage.”

Reva drags both hands over her face. “Can everyone stop acting like this is normal?”

Nash turns to her. “It isn’t normal. It is practical, though.”

“Practical is becoming my least favorite word.”

Cal makes a rough sound that might be a laugh if he had not been pushed so close to madness. He looks at Reva, then Deacon, then the rest of us.

“A fourth,” he says. “Really, Reva?”

Her face goes hot again. “Cal.”

“I’m not judging.”

“You kinda sound like you’re judging.”

“I’m counting.” He points between Nash, Ever, me, and Deacon. “I raised one girl. One. Somehow she found four men who look like they require background checks and firearm permits.”

“We have both,” I say.

“That is not comforting.”