Page 174 of The Final Cut

“For what?”

“To get you out.”

Mother does not answer.

“Or to try,” I add.

Outside my closed door, a floorboard creaks. One of Nash’s men, probably. Or Shiloh pretending not to hover. This place has too many protectors and too few people willing to say they are afraid.

Mother finally speaks. “It’s not that simple.”

“No one here seems confused on that point.”

“If I leave, either openly or secretly, Isabel punishes everyone she thinks helped me. Like Sabine.”

“If I stay⁠—”

“She uses you until there’s nothing left.” My voice breaks on the last word.

Mother hears it. She always hears it. “Delia.”

“No.” I sit forward. “You told me once that surviving is not the same as choosing. I was fifteen and angry, so I pretended I didn’t understand. I understand now.”

Her silence feels almost tangible. I look at the list again, at the names that may become doors or traps or gravestones if I choose wrong.

“I’m going to have to do something I don’t want,” I say.

“What?”

“Become useful in a way Isabel did not design.”

Mother is quiet for a long time. Then, softly, “They asked you to take La Rosa.”

It is not a question. I close my eyes.

“Yes.”

A sound leaves her. It is too small to be grief and too broken to be relief.

“I don’t want it,” I say.

“I never wanted it for you.”

“I know.”

Mother’s voice steadies. “Wanting has rarely mattered to women in this family.”

“It will after.”

The promise is reckless. I make it anyway.

Mother breathes in. “After.”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Then: “Does Reva know?”