Page 206 of The Final Cut

Delia is cleaning hers with ledgers, lawyers, weapons, and a truly terrifying capacity for quiet disappointment.

Mari helps.

Nash helps in ways that make old men sweat through expensive suits. Ever has rebuilt their entire communications network twice because he found flaws and took them personally. Shiloh has become alarmingly good at getting dangerous women to tell him who needs protection, who needs money, and who needs to disappear. Deacon says very little, which means half the city is nervous and the other half has poor survival instincts.

And me?

I stand beside my sister when she needs me. Then I go home to Blackwood House and my men.

This morning, though, I’m on the terrace of the house Isabel used to haunt, gripping the back of a wrought-iron chair while everyone pretends I’m handling Cal’s arrival with grace.

I am not.

Sonny sits at the table wearing sunglasses the size of dessert plates and holding Homer’s leash wrapped around one wrist. He has sprawled under her chair in a patch of sunlight, orange belly exposed, white cross on display, enjoying the sort of peace he has never personally earned.

“He looks dead,” Sonny says.

“He’s just being dramatic.”

“He gets that from you.”

“Do we have to rehash this every time? I told you, I’ve been through things.”

“So has he. I saw him lose a fight with a curtain tassel this morning.”

Delia looks up from the folder in front of her. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Yes,” Sonny and I answer together.

Homer meows without opening his eyes. Mari laughs softly from near the terrace doors.

She stands in the doorway with a pale blue cardigan over a white dress, her hair pinned back loosely, one hand curled around a coffee cup. The morning light gentles her face. It doesn’t erase the lines grief carved there, and I’m glad. I don’t think I could trust a mother who came back smooth and untouched.

She doesn’t try to take Cal’s place. She doesn’t ask me to call her Mom. She doesn’t press kisses on me or tell me how much she suffered every time I admit I suffered too. She answers questions when I ask them. She stops when I say stop. She sends me pictures of old recipes and asks whether I remember them, and when I say no, she says, “Then we can make new ones.”

Sometimes I resent her for surviving. Sometimes I want to crawl into her lap like I’m four years old and the phone hasn’t rung yet.

Usually, I settle for coffee on the terrace and letting her touch my hair when she passes behind my chair.

Today, when her fingers brush the end of my braid, I don’t pull away. Her eyes shine, but she controls it.

The front drive crunches with tires. My hand locks around the chair.

Nash appears beside me. I have no idea where he came from, which is typical and annoying. He settles one hand at the back of my neck, thumb pressing into the tense place beneath my skull.

“He’s going to complain.”

“I know.”

“He’s gonna hate the wheelchair.”

“I know, Nash.”

“Good. Then breathe before you pass out and give him something else to complain about.”

A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.

The doors open inside the house. Voices move through the hall. Ever first, low and firm. Then Shiloh, sounding bright in the careful way he uses when a room needs warmth and he’s willing to bleed a little to provide it. Deacon says something I can’t hear. A cane taps once against the floor, followed by Cal’s voice, rougher than I remember and exactly as irritated as promised.