Page 122 of The Final Cut

He hangs up before I can answer, which is very Nash and therefore extremely rude.

For two seconds, everyone stays where they are. Then the room shifts into motion. Ever turns back toward the screens, already shutting down feeds and wiping anything that cannot move with us. Shiloh heads for the hall, calling over his shoulder that he’ll pack the first-aid kit, ammunition, cat food, and whatever muffins survived breakfast. Delia bends carefully to pick up Homer, who allows it with great dignity and no loyalty at all.

Deacon’s phone rings.

The sound is not loud, but the effect is immediate. No one speaks. Even Shiloh stops at the hallway entrance.

Deacon’s arms leave me slowly. I turn as he takes the phone from his pocket. The screen shows no name. No number. Just a blocked call that should not have found this device.

His face changes. Something older than fear and more controlled moves across his features as he answers, pressing the button to set the call on speaker. “Cross.”

The room holds its breath.

A woman’s voice comes through. “You have something of mine, Deacon. As well as an unfinished task.”

My blood turns cold. Isabel.

Delia’s fingers tighten around Homer until he complains and squirms. She loosens them at once, but her face has emptied of expression.

Deacon’s voice becomes flat. “Delia is not yours.”

A soft laugh. “Possession has never required permission.”

“You lost her.”

“I misplaced her,” Isabel says. “Temporarily. A vulgar inconvenience, and one you will correct if you have any memory left of who made you.”

Deacon’s eyes lift to mine. Whatever he sees there steadies something in him. Or maybe it makes him worse.

“You made a weapon,” he says. “Then you put it in a room with the only person it would choose over you.”

He pauses. “Actually, I take that back. Several people. It honestly doesn’t take much where you’re concerned, Isabel.”

Isabel is silent for half a beat.

Then she says, “Romance has made you theatrical.”

“Nah. This has nothing to do with either of those. You’re just a psychotic old cunt, and I’m done being your red right hand.”

My heart kicks hard.

Isabel’s voice sharpens beneath the silk. “Bring the girls back, and I may let you decide which one survives long enough to disappoint me again.”

Deacon’s hand tightens around the phone. “Go to hell.”

“I own too many rooms there already.”

“Then sit in one and wait for the fucking fire, bitch.”

Shiloh’s eyebrows lift despite everything.

I would laugh if I could breathe.

Isabel does not. She sighs. “You can run. Blackwood can hide you in every pretty hole he purchased against the day his sins found him. Rousseau can shoot my toys from the sky. Lafitte can charm nurses and frightened girls. None of it changes the order of things. La Rosa endures. La Rosa remembers. La Rosa wins.”

Delia makes the smallest sound at the back of her throat. Deacon looks at her, and something in his face shifts.

“Not this time,” he says.