Page 141 of The Next Lie

Cal watches me as I chew.

Swallow.

“We had more than words.”

“I saw.”

“Then why ask about it?”

“Because I want to know what started it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ever sets his mug down. Shiloh goes quiet. Nash’s eyes sharpen.

Cal’s voice stays gentle. “You two have a lot of hurt between you.”

My laugh comes out flat. “That is a very soft way to describe her telling me I should have stayed dead.”

Cal’s face tightens. Good. Let him sit with that.

“She didn’t mean that,” he says.

“You don’t know what she meant.”

“No. I just know what it sounds like when somebody is terrified and stupid with it.”

My chair scrapes back an inch.

Shiloh says my name softly. I ignore him.

“As far as I’m concerned, she has her wish,” I say. “I have no sister.”

Cal’s shoulders drop, the smallest surrender. “Aw, now don’t be like that.”

The phrase hits me wrong. Too familiar. Too fatherly. Too easy for him to say when he is not the one who stood on a patio looking at the girl he mourned and then heard her choose the grave over him.

I set my fork down carefully. The plate clinks too loud.

“Just giving her what she wants.”

“Reva—”

“She can stay dead to me, and I’ll stay dead to her.”

Cal looks like I slapped him.

I stand before anyone can stop me, before Nash can order me to sit, before Ever can steady, or Shiloh can soften the edges. The kitchen blurs at the corners, but I keep my chin up. I will not cry over Delia. Not in front of pancakes. Not in front of Cal.

Homer appears in the doorway, tiny and orange and uselessly hopeful.

I step around him and walk out. Behind me, no one follows right away. For once, they let me leave with the last word.

I hate how little it feels like winning.

Delia—

I said I don’t have a sister. Out loud.