Page 158 of The Final Cut

Always.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

REVA

I stand in the middle of the bedroom and for a moment forget what I came in here to do.

Sleep, I think.

That was Nash’s order. Sleep first; planning after. He said it like the world has compartments, like exhaustion can be peeled away from terror and grief and shoved into a separate drawer until morning. He said it with his fingers under my chin and his eyes on mine, and I listened because I believed the promise under the command.

Planning after. He means it. I know he means it.

That does not make my body understand.

The bedroom is too large and too quiet, all soft lamps, pale sheets, polished hotel furniture, and curtains pulled across the windows to hide the city. The bed is still ruined from earlier, one side tangled where Nash held me, one pillow on the floor.

I should shower. I smell like rain, hospital antiseptic, Shiloh’s SUV, fear-sweat, and Cal’s room. I should check on Homer. I should ask someone whether Deacon called from the hospital. I should find out whether my mother made it back to wherever Isabel keeps her.

My mother. Alive.

The thought drops through me again, too heavy for the rest of my mind to hold.

The door opens and closes softly behind me.

Delia stands just inside the room, still barefoot, still wearing my borrowed clothes. She has one hand near the doorframe, gaze moving over me, the bed, the bathroom, the nightstand. She probably sees everything. The rubber bands my hand hovers over. The boots I kicked off. The tremor in my fingers. The way I’m standing in the center of the room because choosing a direction would mean admitting one exists.

She says nothing. Maybe she already knows I discovered our mother tonight. Why didn’t she tell me?

The thought is sharp enough to cut through the fog.

I turn toward her. “I met our mother.”

Delia flinches.

It is tiny. A quick tightening around her mouth. A fractional hitch in her breath. If I hadn’t been looking, I would have missed it, but I was looking.

My laugh comes out thin. “Interesting, since I thought she was dead. I thought you might like to know.” I fold my arms around myself before my hands can do anything desperate. “Then again, I guess you already knew, since she’s been with you this entire time.”

Delia closes her eyes for one second.

When she opens them, she walks toward me with the controlled purpose of someone approaching a bomb. “Come on.”

I step back. “What?”

“Shower first.”

“No.”

“Reva.”

“I don’t want a fucking shower.”

“You need one.”

“I need answers.” My voice breaks on the last word, and I hate that, so I make it louder. “I need honesty. I need one person in this family to stop deciding which truths are safe for my delicate little feelings.”

Delia stops.