Page 31 of The Next Lie

I move to the desk and pour another bourbon. I do not drink it. I hold the glass because my hands want something to do and there are too many breakable things in this room that belong to Nash.

Delia watches the motion. “You need to get rid of her.”

“No.”

The answer is too fast for diplomacy.

Delia’s face hardens. “Send her away.”

“No.”

“She can’t be here.”

“She’s here already.”

“Then make her leave.”

“She’s not a package I can redirect.”

“Don’t get clever with me.” She steps closer, anger finally breaking through the trained smoothness. “You think I don’t know what happens now? You think I don’t know what her showing up means?”

I set the glass down.

“What do you think it means?”

“It means people will start asking questions.”

“They already are. She knows she’s here already, Dee.”

“It means old files get opened.”

“They should have been opened years ago.”

“It means she’ll dig until she finds something she can’t survive.”

“She has survived more than you know.”

Delia’s eyes flash. “No. She hasn’t. She hasn’t survived nearly enough.”

There it is.

I roll my lips inward, tasting bourbon. I wouldn’t call it hate, or rage, or anything kin to that. Not exactly.

It’s a wound with teeth.

I let the silence sit because she needs to hear what she just said. Her mouth trembles. She looks away.

“She had Cal,” she says, quieter.

“She did.”

“She had school.”

“Yes.”

“She had a life.”

I say nothing.