Page 84 of The Final Cut

He breaks off as his phone chirps with a notification, his expression shifting, changing.

“What is it?” Whatever it is, it isn’t good. “Nash? Is it Cal? Is Cal okay?”

He looks up, his gaze meeting mine, then the others’. “Cal is okay. It’s Noir. That was Sonny…Noir is on fire.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

REVA

There was zero question of me remaining behind. I scrambled into the boat and the only way I was getting out was if someone threw me over their shoulder—which they could have done, let’s make no mistake.

But Ever just sighed and looked at Nash. “I’ll watch her.”

There was no discussion after that.

By the time we reach Noir, there are no flames.

Smoke hangs over Lasalle Street in a greasy gray veil, turning the streetlights blurry and mean. A fire truck blocks half the road, red lights pulsing over wet pavement, over brick, over the black-painted doors that once looked sinful and untouchable and now look like somebody tried to pry them open with heat.

The front windows are intact. The sign still glows.

NOIR, in sleek white letters, flickering at the edges because water has gotten somewhere electricity doesn’t appreciate.

I stand on the sidewalk with my arms wrapped around myself and stare at the building where I came looking for a killer and found the rest of my life instead.

A firefighter comes out through the front door carrying a coil of hose. Smoke rolls out behind him. It’s paler now, tired. The smell hits a second later, wet ash, and burned fabric and chemical foam, layered over the ghosts of liquor, perfume, old wood, and the sweet bite of whatever they use to polish the bar.

Shiloh steps past me first.

His face is wrong.

There’s no smile. No easy mouth. No careless comment tossed into the smoke to make the night less awful. He moves toward the door, and Nash catches him by the arm before he gets two steps.

“Wait.”

Shiloh looks at him. For one second, I think he might swing. Then his jaw flexes, and he stops.

Ever is already talking to a firefighter near the curb, phone in one hand, tablet in the other. His shoulders are rigid beneath his jacket. He keeps glancing at the building like he’d like to take the whole thing apart piece by piece and interrogate the walls.

Deacon stands at my back, close enough that I feel his presence, far enough that I don’t feel held in place. He’s been quiet since Nash said the words.

Noir is on fire.

Sonny pushes through a cluster of people near the next storefront and comes toward us fast, her hair shoved into a messy bun, eyes red, hoodie half-zipped over pajama pants patterned with tiny skulls.

I don’t remember moving, but then she’s in front of me and I’m grabbing her.

“You’re okay?” I demand.

She squeezes me hard. “I’m okay.”

“You called Nash.”

“I called you first, but Ever has your phone doing Fort Knox things, so it went straight to doom voicemail.”

“So rude; I’m sorry.”

“I know. I left an emotional message.”