Page 32 of The Next Lie

The room does not forgive the sentence. It repeats it back at us in the hum of the air conditioner, the muffled bass through the wall, the little clink of ice settling in the glass I have not touched.

“She had a life,” Delia says again, and this time the anger in it cracks wide enough for grief to show. “And I’m glad. God help me, I’m glad. But I hate her for it, too, and I hate myself for that, so if you want to judge me, get in line.”

“I’m not judging you.”

“Why not? You judge everyone.”

“I assess risk. There’s a difference.”

She sideyes me, lip curling. “You have to send her away.”

“I told you no.”

“You owe me.” The words come out before she can stop them.

I look at her. She looks back, breathing hard now, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

“You owe me,” she repeats, and this time she means to say it. “For every year. For every lie. For every moment you let me believe she was dead. For every time I stopped asking because it hurt too much to hear the answer. You owe me this.”

Something old and tired presses behind my ribs.

“Yes,” I say.

She blinks.

“I owe you,” I say. “I owe Reva. I owe your mother. I owe the dead. I owe debts that will not fit inside the rest of my life.”

“Then pay one.”

“I can’t.”

“Won’t.”

“Can’t.” My voice hardens. “It’s too late to just send her away.”

Fear moves across her face before anger covers it. “What does that mean?”

“It means she came into Noir. She’s been hunting for me. She found you. Nash has claimed interest. Shiloh and Ever won’t step aside. Cal will hear about tonight by morning if he hasn’t already. Too many people have seen her face.”

Delia swallows. “And?”

“And when the wrong person puts the right pieces together, there’s no sending her anywhere far enough.”

Her gaze holds mine. She understands more than I want her to. Less than she needs to.

“What pieces?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I am not telling you anything you can’t safely carry.”

“I have carried worse.”

“You don’t know half of what I’ve carried.”

“I know enough to wish I had carried more of it for you.”

That stops her. The anger does not leave her face, but it loses its footing for a second.

“Please stop,” she says.