Page 165 of The Final Cut

For once, I do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DEACON

By dawn, the penthouse has given up all pretense of being a hotel room.

It’s a command post now.

The dining table is covered in laptops, phones, paper maps, hotel stationery, coffee cups, weapons, and one silver room service tray nobody bothered to send away. Ever sits at one end with three screens open and a fourth balanced on the chair beside him. Shiloh is barefoot near the windows, curtains drawn behind him, damp hair pushed back, exhaustion lining his face. Nash stands at the head of the table because men like Nash don’t need thrones. Everyone in the room already knows where to look.

Delia sits on the sofa with Homer in her lap.

Reva stands behind one of the dining chairs with both hands on the back of it, like she needs furniture between herself and the rest of us.

She’s wearing the same hoodie she wore to the hospital. Her hair is braided again, neater than before, which means someone else did it. Probably Shiloh. Her face still holds sleep in soft places, but her eyes are wide awake and too bright. She keeps glancing at the door, then at my phone, then at me.

I know what she is counting. Who is here, and who is at the hospital. Whether someone is still breathing because we are not watching him with our own eyes.

Cal is under Blackwood guard. Five men now, rotating in pairs, with one in the lobby, one in the garage, one on the stairwell, and two on the ICU floor. Ever has access to the hospital cameras again after a brief argument with their system and a longer one with their outside vendor. The nurse assigned to Cal is clean. The doctor updated Nash twenty-three minutes ago.

No change. No change is good when every other direction is down. Reva doesn’t trust good, though.

I don’t blame her.

Her gaze flicks to my phone again.

I cross the room without making an announcement. She sees me coming and stiffens, chin lifting like she is preparing for a fight she does not have energy to win.

I slide her to the side, then sit in the chair she is holding on to and pull her into my lap.

She makes a small sound of protest that fools no one, least of all me. Her body resists for half a breath, then settles sideways across my thighs, one hand landing against my chest to steady herself. I wrap both arms around her and keep her there.

The tension in her shoulders does not disappear, but it lowers. It’s enough for now.

Across the room, Delia rolls her eyes toward the ceiling and makes a sound akin to Shirley MacLaine in any movie she’s ever played in. Irascible Female, I think is the role.

“Y’all can’t keep your hands and your dicks off my sister for five fucking seconds, can you?”

Shiloh looks over. “We tried once. It was a terrible five seconds.”

Reva points at him without lifting her head from my shoulder. “Uh-uh. Not going there.”

He presses his lips together with great dignity.

Delia looks at me. “Do you people have meetings like this often?”

“Rarely with cats.”

Homer meows, offended.

Reva’s fingers twist in my shirt. “Is Cal really covered?”

“Yes.”

“You checked?”

“I was there until forty minutes ago.”