Page 20 of The Final Cut

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Nash glances at Ever, whose gaze skates down the hall, sharp and restless. He lifts one finger to his mouth.

“Shh,” he says. “Not here.”

Cold slides through me. I look at the nurse’s station. At the elevators. At the flowers on the counter, bright and cheerful and wrong. At the woman in scrubs who turns away too quickly when my gaze passes over her.

The hospital is no longer a hospital. It is another house full of doors. This time, I am old enough to understand what waits behind them.

I pull out of Shiloh’s arms. He lets me go, though his hand stays close. Nash watches my face as if the smallest flicker might change the plan. Ever keeps scanning. Deacon stands between Cal’s hallway and anyone who might try to reach it.

“You swear he won’t be alone,” I say.

Nash does not hesitate. “I swear.”

I look at Deacon.

His gray eyes hold mine. “On my life.”

That should not comfort me. It does, and I resent it.

I turn back toward the ICU doors. For a second, I let myself stand there as the girl Cal raised. Not the ghost. Not the target. Just his kid, ugly sweatshirt sleeves over bloody wrists, trying to leave a room without letting it feel like abandonment.

“I’m coming back,” I say, quiet enough that only the men hear me.

Then I make myself walk toward the elevator before I can run the other way.

DELIA

AGE 12

Mother brushed my hair tonight.

Only twice.

On the third pass, Isabel walked in, and Mother’s hand stopped halfway down the braid she had loosened. She stepped back so quickly the brush caught and pulled.

I didn’t cry, but Mother looked sorry.

Isabel looked pleased.

Later, Mother left the brush on my vanity. There were three strands of her hair sitting on top of the bristles with mine.

I put them in the little box under my bed with the other things I’m not supposed to keep.

CHAPTER FOUR

REVA

The cabin appears out of the blue dawn like it would rather stay hidden.

At first glance, it looks rough, and I cast an uncertain glance back at Nash. “Is that it?”

His only response is a tiny smirk that dances over his lips. Frowning, I twist back to watch the cabin as we drift closer.

Weathered siding. Low roof. A narrow dock stretching into the green-black water of the bayou we came by. Two battered lanterns throwing soft gold over cypress knees and marsh grass. The kind of place men come to drink cheap beer, clean fish, and pretend silence is the same thing as peace.

Then the boat glides closer, and the lie starts peeling back.