Page 131 of The Final Cut

She stands near the door in black leggings and a dark hoodie, her boots in one hand and her hair braided back. She has taken one of the key cards from the tray and grips it between her fingers.

I sit up quietly, and she freezes. For a moment, we look at each other across the dark.

“Don’t,” she whispers.

There is no point asking where she is going. Cal’s name is written in every line of her body.

I think of stopping her. I think of crossing the room, taking the key card, putting her back in bed, calling Ever, and locking every door between this suite and the hospital. I could do it. I could keep her here.

I would win the room, but in doing it I’ll lose something I may never get back.

In the outer sitting room, something shifts beyond the cracked bedroom door. A darker shape moves near the hall.

Deacon. Sitting in the dark, waiting.

He knew she would try. Because he understands what the rest of us keep trying to discipline out of her: Reva needs choice, even when the choices are impossible.

My jaw tightens. Through the narrow gap, Deacon looks toward me.

I give him one clipped nod.

Follow her.

Protect her.

Don’t take this from her unless the danger becomes bigger than the damage of stopping her.

Deacon rises without sound. Reva’s eyes flick from me to the hall. I’m not sure if she sees him, but her mouth trembles.

“I have to see him,” she whispers.

She waits for the order. I pinch the bridge of my nose and do not give one. It’s the hardest thing I’ve done all day.

“Just…be smart,” I say.

Her face changes, pain and gratitude moving too quickly to separate.

Then she slips out of the room with her boots in her hand. Like a wraith, Deacon follows her into the dark.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

REVA

The hotel hallway is quiet enough to hear my own bad decisions.

The carpet swallows most of my steps, but not all of them. My boots make tiny sounds when I move too fast, so I slow down, place my feet the way Ever taught me, heel gentle, weight controlled, body close to the wall where cameras have the ugliest angles. I keep my hood up and my head down. The key card is in my sleeve instead of my hand. My phone is powered off and tucked beneath the mattress in the bedroom I left behind because phones are leashes with glass faces. I have learned at least that much.

I am not running blind. That should count for something.

Probably not enough.

The service corridor smells like lemon cleaner and warm dust. A cart full of folded towels sits outside a linen closet, and for half a second I consider stealing one because that’s what people always do when they’re trying to do sneaky shit in hotels.

I pause, then keep walking. Nash knows what I’m doing. He doesn’t like it, but he knows. And he knows he couldn’t keep me there.

I straighten my shoulders, mentally high-fiving myself. I didn’t even ask permission. I decided I was going, and at the end of the day—literally at the end of the day—I went. Because I am an adult, damn it. And adults make decisions for themselves.

At the end of the hall, the service elevator waits with a red light above the doors and a camera tucked into the ceiling corner.