Page 170 of The Next Lie
“Killed,” I finish. “Me. Because those thirteen minutes were really that significant.”
No one says anything.
“The life I was rightfully born into,” I repeat. “There’s something I don’t really understand though. I mean, there’s a lot I don’t understand. But if my father was going to run…going to escape…why did he stay here in Nola? Apparently we lived in that house, in hiding, for several years. We were right under the Syndicate—my grandmother’s—nose. Why didn’t he go to fucking Canada? Or Alaska? Why stay here?”
Deacon watches me with that calm I have started to understand is not calm at all. It is a locked door with something violent behind it. He shrugs a little.
“I have no fucking idea. Arrogance? He needed to stay near his contacts? No clue. The only thing I know is that your father did something she considered betrayal,” he says. “So the Syndicate made an example of him. And by extension, you.”
His mouth goes flat. Shiloh says my name softly. I ignore him.
“Why finish it now?” I ask. “Why me? Why not leave the mistake alone if I stayed dead so well?”
Nash speaks before I can explode. “Because dead mistakes can be useful. Living ones ask questions and seek revenge.”
“Well. I guess there’s that.”
I leave the room, unable to stomach any further discussion.
The mail arrives that evening.
I only know because Homer has gotten one claw stuck in the edge of the runner in the front hall, and I am on my knees trying to free him while he acts like I am performing field surgery without anesthesia.
“Stop fighting me,” I mutter.
He yells.
“I am trying to help you, you little beast—”
He yells louder. A pair of shoes stops beside me. I look up.
One of Nash’s men, one Nash determined would stay as extra security while we waited for Mother Superior to make her stupid move, stands with a stack of envelopes in his hands and no idea where to put his eyes. I am on the floor, hair falling over one shoulder, kitten attached to a rug, and ass in the air.
“Uh…I have some mail, ma’am.”
“Well, put it down before it bites you, I guess.”
The man blinks. Then he sets the stack down on the console table and leaves quickly. Poor guy.
I free Homer’s claw, and he immediately attacks the rug again.
“Natural selection is coming for you,” I tell him.
He sneezes.
I stand and glance at the mail without much interest. I don’t get anything now that Deacon is here.
Bill.
Bill.
Thick ivory envelope with my name… Not only mine.
Mr. Nash Blackwood
and
Miss Reva Leigh Hart
