Page 50 of The Next Lie

“You can,” he says, and there’s a terrifying certainty in his voice. “Because you have to. And because we won’t let you fail. Now, get inside. I’ll deal with Nash.”

I step out of the car, my legs still feeling like they belong to someone else. The gravel crunches under my boots, a sharp, real sound that cuts through the lingering fog of the Hart house. I look up at Blackwood House, the white columns gleaming in the afternoon sun, the ancient oaks standing guard.

It’s a fortress. It’s a sanctuary. It’s a cage.

And as I walk toward the front door, I realize I don’t care which one it is, as long as it has a lock that works.

The interior of Blackwood House is cool and quiet, its old money scent a welcome relief from that of rot. I head for the stairs, wanting nothing more than a shower that lasts for three hours and a sleep that doesn’t involve the sound of a 911 operator telling a seven-year-old to stay quiet.

I reach the first landing when the door to Nash’s study swings open with a violence that makes me jump.

Nash stands in the doorway, his silhouette tall and imposing, his glacial blue eyes fixed on me with a look that would make a lesser woman dissolve into a puddle on the floor. He looks at my dusty boots, my tear-streaked face, and the way I’m holding myself like I might fall apart if the wind blows too hard. His jaw is tight, his hands fisted at his sides, his chest heaving with a slow, controlled rage.

“Where,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates through the floorboards, “the fuck have you been, Reva?”

I square my shoulders, wiping the last of the dust from my hands onto my jeans.

“I went home, Nash,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I went home to find the girl you all keep trying to protect. Turns out, she’s still there. She’s just not the one who walked back out.”

The silence that follows is absolute.

Nash's lips tighten. Behind him, Ever enters the foyer, his expression flat and unreadable, ready to step in or step back. The air in the house is thick with it—the possessiveness, the trauma, the dark, tangled mess of whatever we are becoming to each other.

“Go upstairs,” Nash says finally, his voice dropping an octave. It isn’t a suggestion. “Clean yourself up. We’ll talk when I’m less inclined to break something.”

I don’t wait for him to change his mind.

I turn and run up the rest of the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs. I don’t look back at either of them. I reach my room and shut the door, leaning against the wood and sliding to the floor.

Homer is there in an instant, a tiny orange blur that lands in my lap and begins to purr with a volume that seems impossible for his size. I bury my face in his soft fur, the tears starting again, but this time, they aren’t only for the past. They’re for the terrifying, beautiful, dangerous future I’ve just walked into.

I didn’t find any kind of certainty at the Hart house. I found a new kind of ghost.

But as I sit on the floor of the bedroom, listening to the muffled sound of Nash and Ever arguing downstairs, I realize that for the first time in fifteen years, I’m not hiding in the closet.

I’m standing in the middle of the room.

And this time, when the door opens, I intend to be ready.

Delia—

I went back to the house today. Our house.

Damnit, I don’t know why I’m telling you this when you’ll never read it. Maybe because you’re the only person who belonged there with me. Maybe because if I write it down, it feels less like I’m walking into a grave alone.

I need to know what I saw.

I need to know if I made you dead because my brain couldn’t survive the alternative.

Were you scared? Were you calling for me? Did I leave you?

God, I hope I didn’t leave you. I’m telling you now, I’ll die if I did. If that’s why you hate me, I deserve it. Just tell me.

The closet is smaller than I remembered. That feels insulting somehow. Like the thing that ate my life should have had the decency to be huge.

I don’t know what I was expecting. There was no proof there. Just dust and old wood and the smell of cedar.

I remembered the man with the rosary. I remembered enough to know I didn’t imagine him.