Page 75 of The Final Cut

Sabine reaches into her blouse and pulls out a folded sheet of paper, then hands it to Deacon. He opens it between us. A schedule. House rotations, delivery times, a charity board luncheon, two foundation visits, a chapel appointment and a private meeting marked only with initials.

“Isabel will bring Delia out in public within forty-eight hours,” Sabine says. “She has to. Rumors started after the gala, and Isabel cannot let people think a granddaughter has been caged because she embarrassed the family. There will be a Sainte Aurelia Foundation luncheon at the old convent…here.” She points at the date. “Donors, press, board members, enough witnesses to keep violence polite.”

“Polite violence is still violence,” I say.

“Yes. But it gives you movement, vehicles, staff, and a schedule Isabel will not want disrupted.”

Deacon studies the paper. “Route?”

“Usually from the rear drive to Magazine, then across. I can confirm the morning of. Delia will be dressed, accompanied, and miserable. If you try to take her from inside the house, you lose. If you take her in public, Isabel loses face before she loses the girl. That gives her half a second of hesitation.”

“Half a second can be enough,” Deacon says.

Sabine looks at him. “It can also be a grave.”

He folds the paper and passes it to me. I take it because I am the one who needs to argue against hope when hope starts moving too fast.

“What do you want for this?” I ask.

Sabine’s chin lifts. “A life to live.”

“Specific.”

“I want my younger brother moved out of the city before Isabel notices I’m useful to the wrong people. He works docks on the West Bank. He has no part in this.”

Deacon says, “Done.”

I look at him. He doesn’t look back at me.

Sabine sees the half-exchange and smiles faintly. “You two are going to be exhausting.”

“We already are,” I say.

Her smile fades again. She studies Deacon, and when she speaks, the question has lost its sharp edges. “What happens after you get Delia out?”

Deacon says nothing.

Sabine’s discomfort grows visible by degrees. The shift of her weight. The way her fingers smooth over the chain at her throat. “I am asking because people are starting to ask. Quietly, but they are asking. You crossed Isabel. Delia protected Reva. Boudreaux survived. Blackwood moved…hid.”

Ever mutters in my ear, “Tell her I’m offended she left me out.”

I ignore him.

Sabine’s eyes stay on Deacon. “Is your plan to go to war with La Rosa?”

Deacon and I look at each other. There is no clean answer. War has already started. The question is whether we admit it before Isabel forces the city to do it for us.

“Whatever it takes to keep the girls safe,” I say.

Sabine’s eyes flick to me.

Deacon’s voice comes lower, rougher, and he says the thing no one really wants to say. “They are La Rosa.”

The courtyard seems to quiet around the words. Sabine’s face changes—with recognition, maybe. A bit of fear mixed in, perhaps, because fear is the first sane response to a truth with that much weight behind it.

Deacon steps closer, not enough to touch her, but enough that she can’t pretend he is speaking anything but God’s truth.

“Don’t forget that,” he says.