Page 192 of The Next Lie

Isabel stands at the head of it, dressed in ivory and gold, pearls at her throat, dark hair swept back from a face arranged into perfect hospitality. Small and elegant in her satin and lace. A woman strangers underestimate exactly once.

She smiles when Nash and Reva reach her.

“Mr. Blackwood,” she says, extending a hand. “You honor us.”

Nash takes it, just barely allowing the tips of his fingers to graze hers. His silence is almost vulgar.

Isabel’s smile does not flicker. She turns to Reva with all the warmth of a blade left in the snow. “And Miss Hart. What a pleasure.”

Reva’s lips tremble beneath the edge of the gold mask.

Only once, and then she tightens them firmly into something that passes for a thin smile. Most people would miss it. I do not.

She inclines her head. “Mrs. Rosario.”

“Isabel, please. Tonight is for friends.”

Nash’s hand settles more firmly at Reva’s back.

Reva’s mouth curves. It costs her.

“How generous.”

Isabel’s eyes brighten. “I do try.”

The moment lasts no more than ten seconds. An eternity, given the weapons involved.

Reva tugs at her hand, and Isabel releases it.

Nash moves her away before anyone can call it rude, guiding her toward the far side of the ballroom where the shadows are useful and the wall is at their back. Reva walks beside him without looking over her shoulder.

I watch for her.

Isabel watches them go, the smile lingering on her lips. I have seen men die with kinder expressions.

Inwardly, I curse New Orleans and all its ghosts.

Until last night, there were possibilities. Bad ones, but possibilities. Isabel knew something. Suspected more. Wanted to test the shape of an old rumor that had begun breathing in her city.

Now I know better.

There is no shadow of doubt, now. She knows Reva is alive. She knows I kept her that way. She has decided survival is an insult that requires correction.

For the first time in years, I feel the edge of helplessness.

I don’t like it.

Helplessness is a child’s condition. A thing to outgrow or kill. Men who survive in El Sindicato de la Rosa learn quickly that fear is only useful if it becomes action.

My trouble is not fear; it is scale.

I know Isabel’s reach. The money. The judges. The police captains. The old family debt. The priests who hear confessions and report the ones that matter. The girls raised in pretty houses to become knives. The men raised to believe dying for the Order is less costly than disappointing it.

I know her intelligence. Worse, I know her patience.

Isabel doesn’t strike because she can. She strikes when the wound will teach a lesson to everyone watching.

Reva is not only a loose end. She is moral theater.