Page 40 of The Final Cut

“He can move.”

Homer opens one eye when I approach. I give him a look. He gives me one back, then rises with deep offense and relocates to the chair by the window as I shut the blinds and then turn the covers down.

“Thank you,” Reva tells him.

The cat turns his back.

I lay her on the bed and climb in behind her. The quilt is too bright for the night we just had. Blue and gold and green beneath us, a ridiculous patch of color in a room full of locked glass and grief. I pull her against me, her back to my chest, one arm banded under her breasts, the other across her waist.

She fits here.

That thought is dangerous. I let myself have it anyway.

For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. The marsh is brightening beyond the shades, but in here, it’s cool and dark, and we’re due for a few hours shut-eye. Somewhere in the cabin, Nash’s voice moves low over a phone call. Shiloh opens and closes a cabinet. The house settles around us, secure and temporary.

Reva’s fingers find mine.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I stare at the back of her head. “For what?”

“For making things harder.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that.”

She goes quiet.

I tighten my arm when I feel her start to withdraw inside herself.

“You’re angry,” I say. “You’re scared. You want your sister. You want Cal safe. None of that makes you difficult.”

“Shiloh said I was.”

“Shiloh said you were making it difficult to keep you alive. He was right.”

She huffs. “Very comforting.”

“I’m not trying to comfort you.”

“No kidding.”

My mouth brushes her damp hair. “I’m trying to tell you the truth.”

Her fingers move over my knuckles, restless. “I can’t leave Delia there.”

“I know.”

“Knowing doesn’t fix the problem, Ever.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then what does?”

The question sits between us, heavy and honest.

“We plan,” I say. “We train.”

She shifts enough to look back at me. “Train…to do what, exactly?”