Page 128 of The Next Lie

Delia sits in the passenger seat and stares out the window, arms crossed, water pooling beneath her on the leather. I say nothing about the upholstery. She wants me to. She wants something small to bite. I refuse to give it to her.

Her home sits in the Garden District behind iron gates and old oaks, a grand white mansion with wide galleries, tall windows, and columns that make it look more respectable than anything connected to the Syndicate has a right to look. The lights are on in the foyer when I pull into the drive.

Delia opens the door before the car stops fully.

“Wait.”

She does not. She slams the door, marches up the steps, and lets herself inside without a word.

I follow at my own measured pace.

The foyer is marble, walnut, and money old enough to have manners.

I watch Delia stomp across the foyer, water squelching, and shake my head. Just goes to show money can’t buy class.

A curved staircase rises along one wall. Fresh flowers sit on a carved table beneath a gilt mirror. Nothing in the house is out of place. Nothing ever is.

Isabel Rosario, also known as Mother Superior in certain circles, stands near the base of the stairs.

She’s a small, deceptively fragile-looking woman in her late sixties, with long, dark hair going to silver at the temples. Tonight, despite the late hour, she wears a perfectly pressed cream silk blouse, tailored black trousers, and a single, very special strand of pearls at her throat.

I have experience enough to know she could remove that strand of pearls and use it as a garrote in under ten seconds if she had the inclination.

She lifts one eyebrow at the sight of Delia dripping water across her marble. Delia lifts her chin higher in response.

“I fell in a pool.”

Isabel’s gaze moves to me.

I say, “She was technically pushed.”

Delia turns on me. “I was not.”

“You were dragged down by consequences.”

Her eyes narrow.

Isabel’s mouth barely moves. On another woman, it might be amusement. On her, it is a warning light.

“Go change,” she tells Delia.

Delia looks as though she might argue but sense prevails. She turns and heads up the stairs, each wet step a small act of rebellion.

Isabel watches until she disappears. Then she looks at the trail of water.

“She was wearing silk.”

I shrug. “She chose violence in silk.”

“That sounds like her.”

“Apple doesn’t fall far.”

“Careful, Deacon.”

The way she says my name is almost fond.

I cross the foyer and head for the side room without waiting to be invited. The decanter sits where it always sits on the bar cart, because Isabel believes in hospitality the way other people believe in knives. Even if they are both double-edged. I pour two fingers of whiskey and drink half before turning.