Page 204 of The Final Cut

Home. The word slips in when I’m too tired to stop it.

Blackwood House is quiet when we arrive. The familiar dark halls and warm lamps hit me so hard I have to stop just inside the door. Homer, finally freed from his leash, shoots past my ankles like a furry cannonball and disappears toward the kitchen.

“Traitor,” I call weakly.

He doesn’t care.

Shiloh takes my coat. Ever takes the bag I forgot I was carrying. Deacon locks the door behind us. Nash speaks briefly to a man in the hall, then turns back and looks at me.

All four of them are watching too closely.

“No.”

Shiloh blinks. “We haven’t said anything.”

“You have faces. The faces have looks.”

“I was born with this one.”

“Tragic.”

His smile is soft.

Ever’s hand settles at my lower back and guides me toward the stairs. I let him because my bones have become decorative. Nash walks ahead, Deacon behind, Shiloh beside me. No one says the obvious things. That I killed Isabel. That my sister now sits in her chair. That my mother is alive and didn’t come home with me. That Cal is going to wake up—because he will wake up, damnit—to a world rearranged around his hospital bed.

My room is warm. Our room, maybe. I am too tired to think about pronouns.

Someone has turned down the bed. There is water on the nightstand and clean pajamas folded on the chair. The sight of all that care nearly ruins me. I don’t have enough strength left to defend against softness.

Ever helps me out of my shoes, and Shiloh pulls the blankets back.

I crawl into bed.

The mattress takes me in with indecent kindness. I curl on my side, pulling the blanket to my chin. Shiloh slides in behind me first, warm and easy, one arm careful around my waist. Ever sits at the foot of the bed to remove his boots, then stretches out on the other side of me with his hand over my ankle. Nash sits in the chair near the window like he plans to keep watch from there until the sun burns out.

Deacon remains by the door.

Of course he does.

My eyes are half closed, but I feel him there. The hesitation. The old exit opening under his feet. Deacon Cross, patron saint of leaving before anyone can ask him to stay.

He turns toward the hall. Nash’s voice stops him.

“You don’t have to leave.”

Deacon doesn’t move.

Shiloh lifts his head behind me. “Thank God. I was afraid we were going to have to lure him with candy.”

Ever shifts on the mattress, making room without looking at Deacon. “There’s plenty of space.”

“That was almost friendly,” Shiloh says.

“It was just fucking logistical.”

“Your love language.”

My mouth moves against the pillow.