Page 147 of The Final Cut

I jerk upright so fast the seat belt locks.

“You talked to her?”

His eyes stay on the road. “Yes.”

“Without me?”

“I wanted to know who she was and what she was doing here.”

“She’s my mother.”

“I know that now.”

Something in his voice makes me stop. No defense. No excuse sharpened into a blade. Just truth, tired and plain. He did not know before. He was not part of the circle of men who carried this secret around me like a loaded gun. Shiloh found out tonight, same as me, and did what Shiloh does when the people he loves are bleeding: he walked straight toward the wound and demanded an answer.

The anger drains a little, leaving me cold.

“You really didn’t know.”

“No.”

I sink back against the seat, staring at his profile as another green light slides over his face. “What did she say?”

His jaw flexes.

“She said⁠—”

He stops.

The change is small, but I feel it immediately. His fingers tighten around mine, and his gaze flicks to the rearview mirror once, then again. The softness leaves his mouth.

I turn in my seat before he can tell me not to.

A dark sedan sits two cars behind us.

At first, it’s only a car. Wet windshield. Headlights low. A shape in traffic where there are plenty of shapes, because New Orleans doesn’t empty itself just because my life has become inconvenient. Then Shiloh takes the next turn without signaling until the last second, and the sedan follows.

My pulse kicks.

“What is it?”

Shiloh does not answer. He releases my hand and taps the screen built into the dash, placing a call through the car’s system.

It rings once. Twice.

Ever answers on the third, voice rough with sleep but alert beneath it. “Status.”

“Possible tail,” Shiloh says. “Dark sedan pulled out after us near the hospital. I’m going to test it. I would not mind a bit of help before I accidentally lead company back to the hotel.”

Fabric rustles on Ever’s end, then a muffled curse. “Location.”

Shiloh gives cross streets. I sit very still, watching the side mirror. The sedan stays behind a delivery truck for half a block, then eases out when Shiloh moves right.

Ever’s voice sharpens. “Do not take Canal. Head south two blocks, then left. I’m waking Nash.”

Shiloh takes the next turn, and the sedan follows.

The road narrows, old buildings pressing closer, balconies hanging over the street like spectators. Rain flickers through the headlights. Shiloh drives with both hands now, shoulders loose, eyes moving between the mirrors and the road. He does not speed at first. He lets the city do part of the work: parked cars, slow intersections, a garbage truck lumbering halfway into a lane.