Page 153 of The Next Lie

Aim it at me if you need to.

I can take it.

D.

I fold the letter once.

Very carefully.

Then I unfold it, because careful is not the mood, and crush it in my fist. I march through the hall with it gripped tightly.

Ever says my name behind me.

I ignore him.

Nash’s office door is partially open, a scant few inches. I don’t bother to knock. I hit it with my palm hard enough that it bounces open against the wall.

Nash looks up from behind his desk.

Deacon is standing near the bookshelves in jeans and a black shirt, one shoulder against the frame, his rosary ink visible at his wrist. He looks at the letter in my hand and then at my face.

His mouth almost moves.

It had better not be a smile.

I hold up the paper. “Stop.”

Nash leans back in his chair.

Deacon says nothing.

“Just fucking stop it.” I step inside and slam the door behind me, which ruins the effect somewhat since Nash is still in the room, but I am too angry to care. “This isn’t going to work the way you want it to.”

Deacon folds his arms over his chest, the muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt flexing with the movement. “What isn’t?”

“Whatever this is.” I wave the letter. “Letters. Instructions. Little observations. You reaching for the version of me who actually wrote you back. Newsflash: she did that because she didn’t know any better.”

His eyes sharpen and my nerves tingle. Good. I want blood.

“She knew enough,” he says.

“She trusted a fabrication. Someone who wasn’t real.”

“She trusted someone who answered.”

“She trusted a liar.”

“Yes.”

I hate how fast he gives me that. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make excuses, doesn’t soften the word. He just takes it, and somehow that makes me angrier.

Nash looks between us, then at the letter, then at Deacon. One dark eyebrow lifts. Then he stands.

“Coward,” I snap at him.

“I prefer strategic,” Nash says, straightening his cuffs.

He walks to the door, stops beside me, and bends close enough that only I hear him.