Page 88 of The Final Cut

“No cheap replacements.”

“No.”

“And if insurance suggests beige anything, I’m committing a felony.”

Nash’s mouth almost moves. “Documented.”

Sonny looks between them. “This is weirdly sweet.”

“It’s mostly smoke inhalation,” Shiloh says.

Her eyes narrow. “I’m watching you.”

“Many people do.”

That earns him a towel to the chest.

He catches it, and for one brief second the bar breathes around us again.

By the time we leave, dawn is starting to pale the edge of the sky. Noir stands wet, smoke-stained, wounded, but standing. The sign still flickers. The front doors still lock. The office survived. The main room will need cleaning, repainting, probably new upholstery.

It will live. That’s what’s important.

In the SUV back to the cabin, I sit between Shiloh and Ever with smoke in my hair and grit under my nails. Deacon drives. Nash speaks quietly on the phone, ordering contractors, guards, private cleanup, new protocols, and whatever other expensive violence can be disguised as restoration.

I rest my head against Shiloh’s shoulder. His hand finds mine. Ever’s palm settles warm over my knee.

Noir fades behind us.

Delia is still with Isabel.

Cal is still in the hospital.

And now Isabel has reached into one more place we thought belonged to us.

The next day does not feel like preparation. It feels like walking through a house with the lights off, waiting for the next match to strike.

We sleep in pieces. Clean weapons. Review maps. Watch hospital feeds. Watch Noir feeds too, because the bar has become another patient, injured and guarded and ours.

I snap rubber bands until the inside of my wrist stings.

I don’t ask whether this is what Isabel wanted. I already know.

Sabine confirms thirty-seven hours later.

Morning comes gray and wet, pressing fog against the cabin windows until the marsh disappears beyond the glass. I haven’t slept enough. None of us have. My body feels strung together with coffee, fear, and the sharp little snaps of rubber bands against my wrist.

Deacon’s phone vibrates on the table at 8:06. No one speaks as he reads the message once. Then again.

Nash is already standing.

“What?” I ask.

Deacon sets the phone on the table. The coded line sits at the top. Beneath it, the translation is short and ugly.

Sainte Aurelia confirmed. Delia arrives ahead of luncheon. Private correction before presentation. Service entrance. Window holds.

The room tightens and shrinks around me.