Page 103 of The Next Lie

My steps slow, and then Nash steps back to let the door open. A man gets out of the passenger side.

For a second, my brain refuses the shape of him in this city. The silver at his temples. The set of his shoulders. The familiar stillness that carried me through every fever, every nightmare, every bad day I ever survived in Chicago.

Cal turns toward the bar. Then toward me.

The terrible red drink slips in my hand, sticky and cold against my fingers. Sonny says my name, but the sound of her voice is far away.

Cal sees me.

And the whole street goes silent.

Delia—

A woman today told me there were two sisters.

Very mystical. Very New Orleans. Ten out of ten for atmosphere. Zero out of ten because she made me want to hurl.

She said one of us was in front of me and one was behind a door. I think I know which one I am.

Or I thought I did.

Cal is here now. I saw him on the street and for one second I forgot to be furious because he looked like home.

Then I remembered home is apparently just a prettier word for people who lie better than strangers.

I’m tired, Deedy.

I’m so fucking tired.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

SHILOH

By the time I get back to Blackwood House, everyone is angry. This is not particularly unusual, not since Reva has joined us. Reva is…feisty, and not afraid to show it.

The difference is volume.

The kitchen windows are open, which means I hear Her Feistiness before I reach the back door.

“I told you not to come.”

Her voice cuts clean through the humid afternoon. Sharp. Shaking. The kind of anger that would rather draw blood than admit fear, even though that’s the root of it.

I pause on the back step with two shopping bags in one hand and a garment bag hooked over my shoulder.

I glance down at the bags consideringly. I could interrupt, maybe use what’s in the bags as a distraction. It could work. Probably wouldn’t, but I could try. These are only a small taste of my morning’s labors. I had everything else delivered as I purchased it, so it should be here already.

Cal Boudreaux answers Reva, low enough that I can’t quite make out the words.

Reva can, though. She laughs, and it is a mean little sound.

“Do not even. Don’t stand there and act like this is reasonable.”

I shrug, then push the door open and step inside.

The kitchen is a war room pretending to be domestic. Reva stands near the island, arms folded tight over her chest, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Cal is across from her in jeans and a dark button-down, travel-worn and still somehow steady. He has the look of a man who has spent a lifetime refusing to flinch in front of a frightened child.

Nash stands by the stove, one hand braced on the counter, expression carved from stone. Ever is near the hall door with his phone in his hand, watching silently. Sonny is nowhere to be seen, which means someone with sense got her out of the blast zone.