Page 196 of The Final Cut

It is hard, almost ugly, both of them folding into each other with no grace at all. Ever releases just enough to let it happen while keeping one hand at Reva’s back. Marisol’s arms go around them both, tentative for half a heartbeat, then fierce.

Three women in black, tangled together in the aisle while blood spreads behind them. My throat closes.

Nash moves to my side. “The room?”

“Quiet.” My voice is not fit for more. I clear it and try again. “Too quiet.”

“Good quiet or about-to-be-bad quiet?”

“Jury’s out.”

Konstantin Volkov walks toward us. Every man in the room tracks him.

He stops several feet away from the girls and inclines his head to Delia first. Not Reva.

“This was an unfortunate accident,” he says. His voice is deep, accent thick enough to make the words slower and more deliberate. “An old woman attempted to seize a weapon during a family dispute at my father’s funeral.”

Delia lifts her face from Reva’s shoulder. For a second, they stare at each other. Her cheeks are wet. His father is in a coffin. Isabel is dead between them, and somehow this feels like an introduction.

“Is that what happened?” Delia asks.

Konstantin’s eyes don’t leave hers. “It is what everyone saw.”

A beat. Then Delia nods once. Marisol stills.

Deacon’s mouth tightens in a way that tells me he understands exactly what is being offered. Not mercy. Recognition. A version of events with enough truth to carry and enough control to survive.

Konstantin turns to Marisol. “My condolences.”

“For which death?” she asks.

A faint line appears between his brows. Interest again. Respect, maybe. “Whichever one costs you more.”

Then he looks at Reva.

I do not like that. I move half a step without meaning to.

His gaze flicks to me, then away, dismissing me as no immediate threat and therefore revealing himself to be intelligent but irritating.

“The weapon,” he says, holding out his hand.

Ever already has it. He holds it in a cloth taken from somewhere because Ever is…Ever.

“Handled,” Nash tells him.

Konstantin nods. “Police will be slow. The priest will be slower. My people will grieve privately for the next hour. You should use that hour to disappear.”

Translation: leave.

Translation: he’ll give us time.

Translation: La Rosa and the Volkov family just changed their relationship over Isabel’s corpse.

Marisol draws herself up, one arm still around Delia, one hand on Reva’s back. She looks past us to the La Rosa men who failed to move.

“Anyone who still belongs to her,” she says, voice soft and carrying, “may leave with the body.”

No one moves. Delia’s face changes at that.