Page 27 of The Final Cut

Perfect.

I drag it out with both hands. Dust ghosts up from the slats. Somewhere in the afterlife, Aunt Mildred Blackwood probably clutches pearls and insults my breeding.

I carry the crate into the living room and set it down with enough force to rattle porcelain.

Nash is standing near the bar cart, pouring lowballs of bourbon. He pauses mid-pour and looks at the crate.

His expression changes from controlled guilt to offended disbelief. It is the most alive he’s looked since the hospital.

“What the hell are you doing with my aunt Mildred’s china?”

Reva looks down at the crate.

I lift one plate and peer at the cream-colored, scalloped edge with its tiny pink roses crawling around the rim like a rash. “This is china?”

“It was imported.”

“From where, a funeral home?”

Nash’s eyes cut to mine.

I shrug. “She hated everyone, including you. She’s gone, the plates are ugly, and Reva needs to destroy something that won’t bleed.”

Nash stares at me for three seconds.

Four.

Then he leans back and waves one hand. “Fine.”

“Very gracious.”

“If you chip the island, I’m taking it out of your hide.”

“Strange time to flirt, but I’m flattered.”

Reva makes a sound.

Small. Broken around the edges. Almost a laugh, if a laugh got dragged through gravel first.

I take it like a medal.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

She does not move. “Where?”

“Outside.”

Ever steps forward. “Range first?”

I nod.

Reva looks between us. “There’s a shooting range?”

“It’s Nash,” I say. “I’m surprised there isn’t a moat with sharks.”

Nash rises. “No firearms until she can listen.”

Reva’s spine stiffens. “I can listen.”