Page 170 of The Final Cut

Delia notices, glancing at where their shoulders almost align.

“Start with the women,” Reva says.

Delia’s eyes cut to hers.

“The ones Marisol shielded,” Reva says. “The ones Isabel thinks are harmless.”

For a moment, Delia says nothing. Then she reaches for the pen in Nash’s hand. He gives it to her without comment.

Delia writes the first name.

Then a second.

Then a third.

We all lean toward the page, breath collectively held as the page begins to fill. Then I sit back and watch the ghost and the heir begin taking Isabel apart, one name at a time.

DELIA

AGE 22

Reva’s men got her out, and I am back in Isabel’s house.

My wrists ache. My knees hurt. Mother cried when she thought I could not hear her.

Isabel says correction restores order. She’s so wrong.

Correction teaches memory where to sharpen itself.

Reva is alive. Cal is alive. Deacon is still choosing impossible doors. The men around my sister look at her like they would burn the world down and salt the ashes if it meant keeping her breathing.

Let them.

I am tired of being the daughter who survives quietly.

When the door opens next, I will be ready.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

DELIA

There are three names on the page.

Three names, and everyone looked at them like they were the beginning of a war.

Maybe they are.

I sit on the edge of the bed in the room Nash gave me and stare at the hotel stationery until the letters blur. The paper is thick, cream, expensive in that quiet way rich people prefer, with the hotel’s crest stamped at the top in gold. I hate it on principle. I hate the pen, too. Smooth black ink. Heavy body. Perfect weight.

Everything in this penthouse is made to feel tasteful and safe.

It doesn’t fool me.

Across the room, the curtains are drawn over the windows on Ever’s order. He didn’t raise his voice when he gave it, which somehow made it less optional. The door is closed but unlocked. Reva’s room is down the hall. I heard her laugh once earlier, low and exhausted, then fall quiet. I don’t know which man was with her when she slept. Maybe all of them.

That thought should unsettle me, but it mostly makes me tired.

My sister is loved in a way that looks overwhelming from the outside. Too many hands. Too many eyes. Way too many dicks.