Page 177 of The Final Cut

So I say, “East gate. After the rain.”

A pause.

Then, “After the rain.”

The call disconnects. I sit with the silent phone in my hand until the screen goes dark.

On the bed, the page waits. Three names have become four. Four have become a place. A sticking gate. A possible extraction. A thread pulled loose from Isabel’s sleeve.

I pick up the pen again. My hand shakes this time, so I write slowly, drawing a line beneath all of it.

If I am going to become La Rosa, I will start by stealing my mother back from it.

CHAPTER THIRTY

REVA

Noir looks different with the lights up.

Less sinful.

More tired.

Also damp.

The front room survived the fire, mostly. That is what everyone keeps saying, as if mostly is supposed to make the smell of smoke any less permanent. Industrial fans squat along the walls, growling loud enough to make the whole room feel impatient. A dehumidifier hums near the bathrooms.

The bar itself gleams beneath a fresh polish, but there are faint shadows near the rear hallway where smoke tried to climb the walls before the sprinklers won. The glossy floor has been mopped so many times it reflects the weak morning light leaking through the front windows in wavering streaks.

Noir isn’t ruined. It’s wounded. I don’t know which is worse.

Shiloh is near the stage, supervising one of the cleaners with the careful expression of a man trying very hard not to be an asshole.

“No,” he tells the guy reaching toward a panel box. “Absolutely not. If you touch that without Ever present, I can guarantee he will shoot your dick off.”

The cleaner lowers his hand.

“Good choice,” Shiloh adds, then sets another chair on the floor like reopening a bar after a cartel fire is normal housekeeping.

Ever is behind the bar, unloading a case of bourbon from a smoke-free delivery box with the grim focus of a man who would rather be setting traps. He checks every bottle before placing it on the shelf. Label. Seal. Neck. Bottom. As if Isabel might have figured out how to poison glass through spite alone.

Honestly, she probably has a guy for that.

Nash is in his office.

Deacon is somewhere near the rear entrance, dealing with the new lock system and whatever remains of the alley door. I heard him tell a contractor, very quietly, that if another person used the phrase good enough near this building, they were going to leave in the dumpster.

The contractor has since become highly motivated.

Delia is perched on the edge of a table with one leg tucked carefully beneath her, nursing a coffee she hasn’t touched. Shiloh delivered clothing for her this morning, and she looks better in her own clothes. More at home and assured of herself. She’s wearing black trousers and a soft gray sweater, her hair twisted at the nape of her neck. The bandages are still visible at her wrists.

Not hidden.

That seems deliberate.

I’m wiping the bar with a rag and contributing nothing to society.

The rag is damp. The bar is already clean. Professionally clean, in fact. Someone probably charged Nash an offensive amount of money to make it this clean, and I’m still polishing the same twelve inches because my hands need motion and the bar has become my victim.