Page 194 of The Next Lie

“You moved off post.”

“I’m returning.”

A pause.

“You see something?”

I look at Isabel. She is laughing with a senator’s wife now, one hand on the woman’s arm, face gracious enough to belong in a church window.

“Yes,” I say.

“What?”

I start moving toward the edge of the ballroom, keeping Reva in sight.

“The end of patience.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

REVA

The masquerade is beautiful in the way venomous things are beautiful. All shine and color and careful distance.

Masks glitter beneath the chandeliers. Jewels flash at throats and wrists. Men in tuxedos murmur behind their champagne flutes. Women laugh behind fans, lips painted red, eyes sliding over every corner of the room as if they are shopping for weaknesses.

Nash keeps one hand at my back.

Not low enough to scandalize anyone. Not high enough to look paternal. A reminder and a claim, placed exactly where I can feel the heat of his palm through the green satin.

I should hate needing it. Tonight, I don’t.

Isabel Rosario stands near the far end of the ballroom, surrounded by admirers and predators pretending to be donors. Ivory gown. Pearls. Smooth dark hair streaked with silver. She smiles like a woman gracious enough to forgive sins she ordered herself.

Mother Superior.

The name sits badly in my head.

I keep looking at her hands.

Small hands. Elegant hands. Hands that maybe never held the gun, only pointed toward the person who should.

I can’t shake the thought that there’s something familiar about them.

Deacon is near one of the side arches, wearing black and pretending to belong to her. He looks like security to anyone who does not know him. To me, he looks like a blade laid flat on a table, waiting for someone to reach.

His eyes find mine once. Something in his face makes my stomach tighten.

“Something’s happening,” I tell Nash.

He does not pretend not to know what I mean. “Stay close.”

“Planning on it.”

“Closer.”

I glance up at him. “Such a romantic.”

He snorts. “Not hardly.”