Page 48 of The Final Cut

Ever goes very still. “Stupid.”

“Yes.” The word comes out too loud, and once it starts, everything behind it wants through. “This. Wrist grabs. Mats. Breathing. It’s all very useful if Isabel sends one man to politely kidnap me in an instructional video.”

Ever’s mouth tightens.

I keep going because stopping would mean thinking again.

“She sent men with guns. She sent them to a gala with security and cameras and Nash right beside me. Cal is in ICU because of me. Delia is with her because of me. Everyone kept saying Chicago was safe, and maybe it was. Maybe I should have listened to Cal. Maybe I should have stayed there and let the dead stay dead.”

Deacon moves first. He looks at Ever. Something passes between them. A decision. A warning.

I hate when they do that.

“What?” I demand. “What is the look?”

Deacon takes hold of my upper arm, firm enough that my body understands he will not let me twist away.

“Come with me, Little Ghost.”

“I’m in the middle of being trained against polite instructional kidnappers.”

“You’re in the middle of spiraling.”

“I am not fucking spiraling.”

Ever says nothing—super fucking helpful. “I’ll remember this,” I hiss as I walk past him.

Deacon guides me out of the covered space and across the back of the property. I dig my heels in twice, mostly for dignity. It does nothing. He keeps walking, not dragging, not hurting, but moving me with the inevitability of a man who has killed better arguments than mine.

“Where are we going?”

He does not answer.

“Deacon.”

Still nothing.

We pass the woodpile, which is good. Isn’t that where they used to give kids whippings in the old days?

My mind races. We pass the chopping block. Even better. The place where Ever stood last night with sweat on his skin and an axe in his hands. Definitely want no part of that axe.

“Not fucking spiraling!”

Deacon gives a heavy sigh. Beyond the woodpile, a narrow path leads through reeds toward a smaller dock tucked behind the cabin, hidden from the front approach by cypress and tall grass.

A boat waits there.

Not the sleek one that brought us in last night. This one is flat-bottomed, plain, dull green, with a small motor at the back and bench seats worn smooth by use. It looks like something locals use to slide through shallow water without announcing themselves to the whole marsh.

Something in my chest squeezes hard.

The water is very close. Dark and slow beneath the morning haze.

I stop at the edge of the dock. “Where are we going?”

Deacon steps into the boat first, then turns and offers me his hand. I look at it. He doesn’t lower it.

Behind us, Ever stands at the edge of the path, arms crossed, face unreadable. He is letting this happen. That frightens me more than if he argued.