Page 172 of The Final Cut

That may be a lie.

Everything is happening now, speeding up and hurtling forward toward some inevitable end none of us can avoid.

Leaning over, I take my phone from the bedside table.

The device is new, one of Ever’s, stripped and rebuilt and as safe as he can make one. He handed it to me after the meeting with a short explanation about call routing I only half understood, then told me nothing was perfectly secure, so talk like someone might be listening.

Practical man.

I type the number from memory. Not the one Mother uses for household matters or Isabel’s errands. The older one. The one she made me learn when I was thirteen after a dinner where Isabel smiled too much at a man who owned ships and daughters.

If you ever need me and cannot say why, call me at this number.

I never did. Maybe I was afraid she would answer. Maybe I was afraid she wouldn’t.

The call connects on the fourth ring. For a second there is only silence.

Then her voice, low and careful. “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

A small intake of breath.

Movement follows. Fabric. A door closing softly. Another few steps. I picture her crossing one of Isabel’s guest salons or stepping into the pantry off the service hall, phone pressed close, face arranged into careful neutral lines for anyone who might pass.

When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “Are you safe?”

“That’s a broad word.”

“Delia.”

“I’m safe.”

The silence between us thins.

Then her composure cracks, just enough. “What the hell was that?”

I look at the paper on the bedspread. “What the hell was what? Good morning to you, too.”

“Do not do that.”

“Do what?”

“Sound like her.”

That shuts my mouth.

Mother exhales softly on the other end. “I’m sorry.”

I close my eyes. “Don’t apologize. You’re…right. I’m…stalling or masking or something, I don’t even know.”

“All right.”

That is one of the things Mother is good at. Stopping when asked. It should not be rare enough to notice.

She tries again. “The shooting, Delia. Tell me what happened.”

I lean back against the headboard, the phone tight in my hand. “Isabel’s men chased them. Shot at them. What was Isabel thinking, sending men after them in such a sloppy manner? Of course they were going to shoot back.”