Page 97 of The Final Cut

“That means bad.”

“It means we need to move.”

Sabine already has Delia at the side door. Delia is looking at my ribs.

I point toward the corridor. “Go.”

She moves.

We move through Sainte Aurelia in pieces. Sabine first with Delia under her arm and a clipboard in her hand, looking like security escorting a difficult guest. Nash behind them, tray in hand again. I take the rear, hand pressed once to my side to check the wound. Wet. Shallow. Manageable.

Ever feeds us camera gaps through the comm, voice tight but steady.

“Hall left clear. Kitchen occupied. Two staff at sink. Wait three seconds. Now.”

We wait. We move.

A server sees us near the pantry and opens her mouth.

Nash shifts the tray toward her. “Reception is missing the rosemary biscuits.”

The server’s eyes widen in pure professional horror. “What?”

“Find them!”

She bolts toward the kitchen.

Sabine almost laughs. The sound dies before it becomes dangerous.

At the service door, the van waits with the rear open. Delia hesitates at the threshold.

I see it happen.

The air outside. The rain. The line between the place Isabel controls and the world where Reva waits. For women raised under Isabel’s roof, crossing a doorway is rarely simple. There is always a price somewhere. Always a hand waiting to pull her back.

Nash steps aside, giving her the exit instead of blocking it.

“Delia,” I say.

She looks at me.

“Come.”

Her eyes flash. “Don’t talk to me like a dog.”

“Then stop making me worry you’ll bite.”

For a second, I think she might. Then she steps outside and climbs into the van.

Nash gets in after her. Sabine stays outside.

I pause on the pavement. Rain slides into my collar and down my spine, finding the graze at my ribs. It stings. I let it.

“Come with us,” I tell Sabine.

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“Sabine. You were seen.”