Page 19 of The Final Cut

His hand slides up the back of my head. “I know.”

“I hate all of you.”

“That’s fair, Yank.”

His voice cracks on the last word. That does worse things to me than if he cried.

I grip his shirt. The rubber bands snap against my wrist when my hand closes too hard. “If I leave, it feels like I’m choosing me over him.”

Nash’s answer comes from close beside us. “You are choosing to make it harder for Isabel to kill you both.”

I pull back enough to look at him.

He does not soften his face. He gives me the truth with all its edges left on because he knows polished lies won’t survive me tonight.

“At least one of us will stay with Cal at all times,” he says. “Inside the hospital or close enough to his door to be useful. He will never be alone. I will have men here, too.”

My throat burns.

“Updates at every shift change,” Ever adds. “Vitals, doctor notes, staff changes, room changes. I’ll know if his chart gets accessed by anyone unusual.”

“The second he can have a controlled visit, you come back,” Nash says. “The second he can be moved safely, I will move him.”

“To where?”

“A facility we control, or a private medical setup if his doctors allow it.”

I look toward the ICU doors. They do not care that I am falling apart in front of them. They stay closed, clean and white, holding Cal on one side and the rest of me on the other.

“Who stays first?” I ask.

Nash answers for the room. “Deacon stays first because he knows La Rosa markers better than any of us. Ever gets us out. Shiloh stays with you. I handle the route and police.”

“Police?”

“They are downstairs, and they want statements. They are not getting yours tonight.”

I should care about that. I shot a man. I can still feel the kick of Cal’s gun in my hands. I can still see the guard’s body hitting stone. The fact should terrify me. It is too far down the list to reach.

“Homer,” I say, because my brain picks the smallest living thing it can bear to think about.

Shiloh’s arms tighten. “Already handled.”

My eyes snap to his. “What does that mean?”

“It means Ever sent people to Blackwood House. Homer is in his carrier with food, litter, and enough offended dignity to power the state of Louisiana.”

A sound leaves me. It is almost a laugh and almost a sob. It hurts either way.

“He hates the carrier.”

“He expressed that.”

“Did he bite someone?”

“Only a little.”

That helps in a way it shouldn’t. My vicious little orange flerkin is alive, furious, and biting people on my behalf. I hold on to that because the rest of the world is blood and closed doors.