Page 6 of The Final Cut

“She should save him.”

My eyes snap to his.

The medic keeps working. Smart woman.

Cal’s head shifts. His eyes crack open.

I lean forward before the medic can stop me, one hand grabbing the metal rail near the stretcher. “Cal. I’m here.”

His gaze wanders, unfocused.

“I’m here,” I say again. “You’re in the ambulance. We’re going to the hospital. You’re going to be okay.”

The medic does not correct me. I love her a little for that.

Cal’s mouth moves around the oxygen mask.

I lean closer. “Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

His fingers twitch against the strap.

This time, I can’t stop myself. I slide my hand under his, careful of lines and tubes, and let his fingers curl weakly around mine.

His grip is barely there.

It still breaks me.

“You listen to me,” I whisper. “You made me eat vegetables. You taught me how to change a tire. You threatened three boys in high school for looking at me weird, and one of them was gay. He was gay, Cal. You do not get to leave me with that as your legacy.”

The sound that comes out of him might be a laugh. It might be pain. The monitor jumps, and the medic says something to the driver.

I stop breathing until the rhythm steadies into something ugly but present.

Present is enough. Present is everything.

Deacon’s gaze is on my hand over Cal’s. I feel it without looking at him.

It was Deacon who made sure I found my way to Cal after the night my life changed irrevocably. Deacon who moved pieces, made arrangements, chose silence, chose lies. He helped deliver me to Cal, and I have spent the last fifteen years hating him for every truth he wrapped in shadow.

Because Deacon was also the catalyst for that night, the Reaper sent to sow the seeds planted by my grandmother. No matter how hard he tried to make everything right, the truth is—he couldn’t.

Now he sits across from me while Cal bleeds between us.

The shape of it is too cruel to be accidental.

“If he dies,” I say, voice low enough that the medic can pretend not to hear, “I will never forgive you.”

Deacon does not flinch.

I wish he would. I wish he would defend himself or tell me that isn’t fair. I wish he would give me somewhere useful to put the rage, because the fear is too big and too hungry and it is chewing straight through me.

Instead, he leans forward.

His hand closes around my bloody one where it rests near Cal’s. Carefully. So carefully it almost hurts.

“I know,” he says.

“Don’t do that.” God, I need him to rage at me. But he never does.