Page 48 of The Next Lie

Ever’s grip on my hands tightens. Not enough to hurt, but enough to bring me back. “Who, Reva?”

“The man with the rosary.” The image sharpens and blurs at the same time, like my brain is trying to protect me and betray me all at once. “Before. In the hall. I saw him before I hid.”

It isn’t Deacon as he is now—scarred, weary, holding a glass of bourbon in the dark of Noir Night. It’s a shadow. A lethal, silent shadow that moved with terrifying grace. A flash of ink. Painted beads around a wrist. The red of them inked into skin.

And eyes.

Gray eyes.

River-stone gray.

The same eyes that have been looking at me for the last week like he knows exactly how many pieces I am in.

“The man I came here to murder,” I whisper.

I am crying now, the tears hot and fast, carving tracks through the dust on my face. I lean into him, my forehead hitting the junction of his neck and shoulder. He lets go of my hands and wraps his arms around me, pulling me into his lap. He’s so big that I feel like a child again, tucked away in a fortress made of muscle and ink.

He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the rumble of a growl in his chest, a low, protective sound that makes my heart ache.

“I don’t understand,” I sob into his shirt. “If he was here, if he knew, why am I alive? Why did everyone else end up under sheets and I got to keep breathing?”

Ever’s hand comes up to the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me tighter against him.

He doesn’t have the answers.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe they all do, in pieces, and no one wants to be the one to hand me the knife.

Right now, he isn’t a source of information. He’s a shield. He’s the physical manifestation of the word safe, even if the safety he offers is wrapped in violence and secrets.

We sit there in the dark of the closet for a long time, the silence of the house pressing in around us. I can feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against my ear, a mechanical certainty that anchors me to the present. My breathing eventually slows, the jagged edges of the panic smoothing over into a dull, heavy exhaustion.

I pull back slightly, wiping my face with the back of my hand, feeling the grit of the house on my skin.

“You’re a mess,” Ever says softly.

He reaches out, his thumb brushing a stray tear from my cheek. His touch is so gentle it hurts, a jarring contrast to the intensity of his gaze. He looks at me the way he looks at the security feeds at Noir—like he’s cataloging every flaw, every tremor, and deciding how to fix it.

“Yeah, well,” I say, trying for a sarcasm that falls flat. “It’s a haunted house, Ever. Being a mess is part of the tour package.”

“I don’t like you being here,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous, quiet register. “This place is a grave. You shouldn’t be spending your time in graves.”

“I had to know,” I tell him.

My gaze moves over the cramped space. The warped floorboards. The empty hangers still rusting on the rod. The old wallpaper peeling away near the baseboard. There is no sign of me here. No proof scratched into wood. No little-girl mark left behind to say Reva was here. Reva survived this.

That almost makes it worse.

“I thought there would be proof,” I say. “Something. Anything.”

Ever’s expression shifts.

I look past him, toward the equally empty bedroom. “But there isn’t. There’s just a closet.”

“And you.” The words are quiet.

I look back at him.