Page 61 of The Next Lie

“The Syndicate.”

They. The people who took Delia. The people who ordered whatever happened in that house. The people who knew enough about two little girls to decide one should live and one should not.

My rubber band snaps against my wrist before I realize I’ve pulled it.

Cal’s voice sharpens. “Stop that.”

I look down to see a red line rising on my skin. Even through a phone, from a thousand miles away, Cal still knows the worst things about me.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Then don’t make me worry from this far away.”

“I’m in Louisiana, not a war zone.”

His laugh is quiet and humorless. “Kid, from where I’m standing, there may not be much difference.”

I swipe at my cheek with the heel of my hand. “You’re not surprised I saw her.”

“No.”

“Did you know where she was?”

“I had my suspicions.”

I turn away from the railing and look back through the distant set of glass doors toward the bedroom. The bed is out of sight, but I can picture Nash in it, all hard lines and sleep-warm skin, one hand still reaching for a woman who is currently standing on his patio learning her entire life was a group project in deception.

“This is not a phone conversation,” Cal says.

That makes me laugh, an unamused, weak cackle.

“That is such a violently unhelpful thing to say.”

“It’s also true.”

“Then start talking in person in my imagination and we’ll call it fixed.”

“Reva.”

There it is again. The dad voice. The thing I trusted so completely I never thought to check whether it was tied to anything solid.

“I’m coming down there,” he says.

My spine straightens. “No.”

“I’m not asking.”

“I’m still telling you no.”

His voice goes very calm. “You are standing in the middle of something you do not understand, surrounded by men who have their own reasons for every move they make.”

“Pot, kettle, Chicago.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

“If Delia has surfaced, if Deacon is close enough for you to look him in the eye, then whatever they were trying to keep buried is moving. Fast.”