Page 185 of The Next Lie

“There she—” Sonny stops abruptly.

I look at her in the mirror.

She winces. “Sorry. You told me you hate that.”

“I told Shiloh.”

“You told Shiloh. Shiloh told everyone else. Dramatically. He made it sound like a public health advisory.”

I snort again, and if it sounds a little watery, it’s better than crying.

She holds up the little black enamel hairpin Ever made. The rosebud looks harmless in her palm. Pretty. Delicate. A lie with circuitry inside.

“He wants this in your hair?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere it can see.”

She pauses, then nods once. No joke this time. She pins it into the side of my hair, angled carefully above my ear. Her fingers linger for half a second when she is done.

“You scared?”

I meet her eyes in the mirror. “Yes.”

“Good. You need to be.”

“That’s not comforting, Sonny.”

“Fear means your brain is working. We like working brains.”

“I feel like mine has been operating on emergency power for days.”

“Then tonight, you let the scary men do some of the heavy lifting.”

I look at my reflection.

I look older with the makeup. Not old. Just finished in a way I rarely am. Polished edges over all the places still raw underneath. For a second, I can almost see what other people must see when they look at me now. Not the girl in the closet. Not Cal’s kid. Not Delia’s dead sister. Not Deacon’s little ghost.

But a beautiful woman with a blade for a mouth and a black rose in her hair.

“I have a lot of scary men,” I say.

“You collect them like stray cats.”

“Homer was not a gateway drug.”

“He absolutely was.”

Homer chooses that moment to leap at the curling iron cord.

Sonny yelps, grabs the cord, and I grab the cat. He twists in my arms, furious at being denied the chance to electrocute or burn or otherwise off himself before dinner.

“You have terrible survival instincts,” I tell him.

He bites my thumb.