Page 83 of The Final Cut

“And your job?”

My jaw tightens. “I stay with Ever. Monitor Cal updates.”

“And?” Nash asks.

I look up at him. “Don’t put myself in Isabel’s path.”

His gaze holds mine. “Good girl.”

The praise hits low and hard, but he does not push it. He only rests his forehead against mine for one second, then lets me go.

That breaks me more than if he hadn’t.

“I am leaving soon,” he says quietly, “but not tonight. Tonight we sleep in shifts, reinforce the cabin, and prepare for the confirmation.”

“I really don’t want to wait.”

“I know.”

“I hate waiting.”

“We all know that.”

I look at Deacon. “And Sabine? She’s sure Isabel won’t move Delia before then?”

“No,” he says. “She’s sure Isabel wants an audience. That works in our favor.”

“Unless she changes her mind.”

“Then Sabine calls.”

That is the best answer anyone has.

It is nowhere near enough.

Ever turns one of the monitors toward me. “Hospital feed. Cal’s room. Hallway. Nurse station. I’ll keep them up.”

Cal lies small and still inside the tiny square of the screen. My chest aches.

Delia is somewhere else, behind walls I can’t see through. My father is dead because of this family. My mother is a ghost with a name I am not ready to say.

And Isabel is still alive.

I wrap my arms around myself.

Nash watches me for a moment, then says, “We make use of the time.”

“By doing what?”

“Learning the routes. Reviewing Sabine’s intel. Setting contingencies.”

“Cleaning weapons,” Deacon adds.

Ever says, “Sleeping.”

I laugh once. It sounds awful.

Nash’s expression softens for half a second before the war room takes him back. “Tomorrow, we prepare. The morning after⁠—”