Page 186 of The Final Cut

Delia moves.

She crosses the space between them in three quick strides and drops to her knees, shoving gently between Reva and Marisol with the complete lack of apology only a sister can manage. Marisol shifts back at once, hands falling to her lap, face stricken but yielding.

Delia takes Reva’s hands. Reva turns them over and grips back with both of hers.

“I’m sorry.” Reva’s voice breaks apart. “I’m so sorry, Delia. I’m so, so sorry I did this and Daddy was taken from you, and you were taken, and⁠—”

“Shut up.”

Reva flinches. Delia grabs her and pulls her in.

It isn’t graceful. Their knees knock. Reva’s shoulder hits Delia’s chest. Delia winces because she’s still bruised and bandaged and probably hurting everywhere, but she holds on anyway, one hand fisting in the back of Reva’s hoodie, the other pressing her sister’s face into the hollow of her neck.

“Shut up,” Delia says again, rougher now. “Just shut up.”

Reva breaks. Noisy this time.

A sob tears out of her, and then another, and Delia holds her through it with her eyes squeezed shut and her jaw trembling. She presses her cheek to Reva’s hair like she can keep all the pieces inside by force.

“It’s not your fault,” Delia tells her.

Reva shakes her head against her.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Reva sobs harder.

Delia’s face twists. “I mean—damn it. I mean, I hear you. I hear you, okay? But it wasn’t your fault. You were four. Isabel was Isabel. Dad was the one who put phones in drawers. Mother was the one with bloodlines and enemies. Cal and Deacon were already making contingency plans because everyone knew Isabel was a monster before either of us knew how to tie shoes.”

A breath that might be a laugh breaks through Shiloh’s tension. It dies quickly.

Reva clutches Delia tighter. “I thought you hated me.”

Delia’s eyes open. They are wet.

She looks over Reva’s head at nothing. “I did sometimes.”

Marisol closes her eyes.

I go still.

Delia continues before anyone can soften it. “When I was little. When I was angry. When Isabel made sure I was angry. I hated you for being dead. Then I hated myself for hating you.”

Reva’s sobs quiet into shaking breaths.

Delia looks down at her. “None of that makes a four-year-old responsible for murder.”

Reva doesn’t answer. Delia holds her anyway. The rest of us stay silent because anything we add would be too much.

For once, no man in this room tries to fix what sisters have to say to each other on the floor.

The fans drone beyond the door. Somewhere in the barroom, a cleaner rolls another cart across the floor, wheels squeaking over tile, life insisting on logistics while this family bleeds quietly in Nash’s smoke-stained office.

After a while, Reva’s breathing evens. Not calm. Reva is never calm. But she eventually becomes less ragged. Delia loosens her grip first, then immediately looks annoyed by the loss of contact, which is the most sibling thing I’ve seen from them yet.