Page 34 of The Final Cut

“That’s annoying.”

“Yes. He’s very mature. It’s an annoying habit.”

My mouth twitches.

Then Shiloh leans in and sniffs. Actually sniffs.

I pull back. “Did you just smell me?”

His nose wrinkles. “Regrettably.”

“That was rude.”

“But accurate.” He steps back and gives me a careful once-over. “Maybe take a shower first. You smell like hospital mixed with swamp.”

I stare at him.

He lifts both hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’d still fuck you.”

Nash makes a faint sound from behind us. It might be the ghost of amusement. I choose to ignore that because acknowledging it feels like letting him win something.

“You’re awful,” I tell Shiloh.

“I have been called worse by ugly women.”

I start to walk away, then stop. “Wait. Was that an insult?”

Nash snorts.

Shaking my head, I turn toward the cabin.

Inside, warmth and light wait behind locked doors and reinforced glass. Homer sits on the kitchen island, one paw in a pile of something that used to be neatly arranged beside a ceramic canister. He freezes when I walk in, eyes wide, as if we have caught each other in separate crimes.

“Do I want to know?” I ask.

Homer blinks. A torn packet of tea slides off the counter and hits the floor.

“Fine. Keep your secrets.”

He trots away with his tail high, heading down the hall like he owns the place and we are all just guests with poor manners.

I follow him.

The bedroom they’ve given me sits at the end of the hall, smaller than my room at Blackwood House and nowhere near as old. No carved wood. No heavy drapes. No antique mirror that looks like it might contain a ghost.

This room is clean, contemporary, and softer than I expect. Concrete floors warmed by a bright rug and a quilt spread across the bed. Deep blue, gold, green—little bursts of color against white sheets. A low dresser. A reading chair angled toward the windows. A lamp with a linen shade that gives off a warm pool of light.

My bag sits at the foot of the bed. My phone charges on the nightstand.

The rubber bands on my wrist press into my skin, and I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat. Care is everywhere in this house, disguised as logistics.

Homer followed me in and has already claimed the center of the bed. He circles twice, steps on the quilt like he is testing for traps, then collapses into a dramatic orange crescent. His harness is gone. Someone removed it, a small mercy.

The bathroom door stands open. I step inside and stop.

It is ridiculous.

It’s the kind of bathroom that pretends simplicity while quietly costing more than the earth. The shower is encased in glass with black metal framing, and a deep soaker tub rests beneath a narrow window. The counters are smooth stone, their shelves stacked with thick white towels. My toiletries are lined neatly beside the sink, along with things I did not pack but use anyway. Toothpaste. Face wash. Hairbrush. A clean razor still in the package. My shampoo.