Page 152 of The Next Lie

I stand. I walk to the door. I make it three steps into the hall. Then I turn around, go back, and take the letter from beside the trashcan.

The paper doesn’t smooth out completely. The creases stay, no matter how carefully I flatten it beneath my palms. That annoys me, which annoys me more because why am I invested in the condition of Deacon’s stupid letter?

I open the bottom drawer of the nightstand and slide it under the stack of old ones I brought from Chicago.

Then I close the drawer, like that’s going to fix something, and stomp out of the room, already texting Sonny.

It’s not going to fix a damn thing. But I’ll be damned if I stay shut up in this house.

The next day, another letter arrives. This one is shorter.

Little Ghost,

You ignored my instruction to stay inside the walls. I expected that.

I also liked the green shirt. Shiloh has taste. I resent this but cannot deny it.

Don’t go anywhere alone. If you are determined to be reckless, take Ever. He is better at stopping bullets than conversation, which makes him useful.

Go ahead and throw this one away, too.

You will retrieve it.

D.

I stare at the last line for a full minute, eyes narrowing. I don’t even ask how he knows I threw the letter away. They’re all like that. They know things, which makes them the most annoying assholes this side of the Mississippi.

I pause. Which side of the Mississippi are we on, anyway?

I throw the letter away. Then I retrieve it. Then I hate him until lunch.

On the third day, the letter comes to Noir while I am in the storeroom pretending to help Sonny with inventory. Pretending because my attention span is next to worthless. I count three bottles of bourbon as four, write gin under vodka, and label one line simply Suspicious Brown Liquor because Sonny will not stop talking about a man she met who claims he can read elbows instead of palms.

When the front door opens, I poke my head out and glance down the hall.

One of Nash’s guys steps in, hands a small stack of mail to Ever, and leaves. Ever glances through it. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes come to mine.

I sigh and walk over, holding out my hand.

He hesitates. “Say the word, firefly. I’ll beat him up for you.”

A little smile touches my lips. “I can handle my shit, Ever.”

“But you don’t have to.”

He bends, gives me a soft, lingering kiss, and hands me the envelope. Deacon’s handwriting sends heat shooting straight up my neck.

Sonny leans over. “Ooh. Secret admirer?”

“Go count liquor bottles.”

I tear it open in the kitchen.

Little Ghost,

Your temper is not improving.

You are angrier now than you were when you arrived, which means you still have work to do. Do not aim your rage at people who are trying to stand between you and the grave.