Page 120 of The Next Lie

The pool lights glow beneath the water, throwing pale blue shadows across the stone patio. The garden sits beyond it, dark and damp, the marsh farther out. Blackwood House rises behind me with its windows lit and its people inside pretending any of this qualifies as a normal evening.

I should go back in, but I don’t want to go back in. Not with all of them in there. Deacon, Delia, Cal.

Deacon’s kiss still lives on my lips.

That is the problem. One of several, apparently, but that’s the immediate one, the one most impossible to ignore. My lower lip is tender where he bit it. Every time I touch it with my tongue, my stomach does this stupid, traitorous drop.

I’ll give you time.

A little time.

Not a lot.

He said it like a threat. Worse, he said it like he meant it. Like there’s this outcome waiting for us, and I’m the only one still pretending not to see it.

I hate that.

I also hate that I stood there holding a kitten leash and let him walk away without throwing something at his head.

Growth, maybe. Possibly brain damage. I wasn’t going to throw the kitten, so not sure there’s much of a distinction.

Homer makes a strangled little noise and flops to his other side.

“Same, Speed-Ro, same” I say.

The glass door opens behind me. I turn, already half expecting it to be Deacon, coming back to continue ruining my nervous system.

It’s Delia.

My hand tightens around the leash.

She steps onto the patio and slides the door shut behind her. The house light catches on the rosary marks at her wrist before she pulls her sleeve down. She sees me notice, and her mouth tightens.

For a second, neither of us speaks.

I used to know every expression on her face. I knew when she was lying, when she was about to cry, when she was going to steal the last cookie and pretend she had no idea where it went. I knew the sound of her feet on the stairs. I knew the way she breathed when she was asleep.

Now she stands ten feet away, and I can’t tell whether she wants to hug me or push me into the pool.

Based on the last twenty-four hours, I’m betting on the pool.

Homer gets to his feet, takes one step toward her, then tips over again.

Delia looks down at him.

“What is that?”

“My cat.”

“I can see that. Why is he on a string?”

“He’s in training.”

“For what?”

“Emotional support cat. He’s still in training.”

“He looks like—” She breaks off.