Page 167 of The Next Lie

“Yep.”

“She’ll move soon.”

“I know.”

We head out together, glancing back once toward the hall.

Reva stands between Cal and Deacon, Nash at her back. Ever’s beside me, and all of us are caught in a knot that started arranging itself around her at its center, whether she likes it or not.

A fourth, Cal said. As if any of us woke up one morning and chose numbers.

This girl walked into our lives with ghosts on her heels and set fire to every reasonable limit we had.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

REVA

Routine sneaks in like a thief, beginning with Homer.

The harness remains his enemy, but he has advanced from dramatic collapse to suspicious crouch-walking. Every morning, I take him into the garden on his little black leash, and every morning, he acts like the brick path is lava, the grass is a trap, and the decorative fountain has insulted his orange bloodline.

By day three, he makes it all the way past the pool before flopping onto his side beneath a hibiscus bush.

“Progress,” I tell him.

He chews the leash.

“Rude progress, but progress.”

After that comes breakfast.

Cal cooks because no one stops him, and because the men of Blackwood House apparently understand that if a man is willing to make food, you get out of his way. Pancakes once. Eggs and toast the next day. Grits with cheese and bacon after that, because Cal has decided being in Louisiana and Blackwood House means he has something to prove.

He doesn’t, and we all know that, but that’s Cal.

Nash drinks coffee and reads messages on his phone until I glare at him, and he sets it down.

Ever watches the windows.

Shiloh steals bites from everyone’s plate and claims it’s quality control.

Deacon appears when he wants to, silent and dark-eyed and infuriatingly comfortable in his east-facing bedroom, as if moving into the house was a natural progression after defiling Nash’s desk.

Shiloh hands him a mug without looking at him.

Deacon takes it without comment.

Nash notices. Ever notices Nash noticing. Nobody says anything, which is somehow worse than arguing.

Then Homer chooses that moment to climb Deacon’s pant leg.

“Traitor,” I tell the cat.

Deacon looks down at him. “He has taste.”

Shiloh sighs. “Unfortunately, yes.”

No one mentions the office at Noir or Nash’s desk. No one has to. Nash had it cleaned and polished the next morning with all the subtlety of a man erasing the evidence of a crime.