Page 183 of The Final Cut

Marisol swallows. “I still don’t know how we were found.”

Delia turns her head. The motion is slow enough that I see the decision before the words come.

“I know how.”

Marisol goes still. Delia’s eyes find mine. All the softness from the front of the bar is gone. All the tentative threads we have been trying to tie between us pull tight at once.

“Reva called Isabel,” she says. “That’s how.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

EVER

Reva jerks against my chest.

One second, she’s standing in front of me with my hand settled at the base of her neck, listening to Marisol tell the story of how her parents ran with two little girls and no photographs, no heirlooms, no favorite toys.

The next, every muscle in her body locks. Her gaze narrows on Delia.

“What the fuck did you say?”

The office goes still.

Beyond the closed door, the industrial fans keep growling through Noir, pushing smoke and bleach and lemon oil through the old walls. Someone drops something glass in the front of the bar. The sound breaks, scatters, then disappears beneath the hum of equipment and careful, paid-for silence.

Inside Nash’s office, no one moves.

Nash stands behind his desk, both hands planted on the edge, his face carved into something cold enough to cut. Deacon is near the door with his arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on Delia as if he already sees the damage opening beneath her feet. Shiloh straightens from where he’s leaning close to the bookshelves, one shoulder against the wall, humor vanished in a second. Marisol sits in one of the leather chairs, pale and rigid, fingers twisted together in her lap.

Delia remains standing beside the desk. She doesn’t flinch under Reva’s stare.

“You heard me.”

Reva moves forward, and I catch her around the waist before she can take more than half a step.

She doesn’t fight me. That bothers me more than if she did.

“No,” she says. “No, I don’t think I did. Because it sounded a whole lot like you just said I’m the reason Isabel found us.”

Delia’s mouth tightens.

Marisol’s voice comes out thin. “Delia.”

“No.” Delia’s tone goes flat now, too controlled. “She should know.”

“Explain yourself!” Reva demands. She snaps a rubber band, once, then again.

The sharpness is still there, but something else has started moving underneath it. Fear. Not of Delia. Not even of Isabel. Of memory, maybe. Of the empty places inside her childhood where too many people have been keeping too many answers.

Delia looks at the floor for one second. When she lifts her eyes, she looks younger.

“I walked by Dad’s office,” she says. “It was afternoon. I don’t remember the day. I remember the light because it was bright and sunny all over the floor, and I remember being angry because you were in there and I thought you weren’t supposed to be.”

Reva’s breathing changes against my arm.

“I saw you with one of Dad’s phones,” Delia continues. “The small black one he kept in his drawer. You had it on speaker.”

Marisol’s face goes gray.