Page 83 of The Next Lie

“No, you do not know.” Her voice cracks, then hardens around the break. “You don’t get to keep her from me too.”

I say nothing.

Because she is right. But I’m still going to do it if that’s what keeps her alive. Being hated by Reva is not the worst thing I have survived.

I turn and walk toward the hall. Behind me, she moves.

“Deacon.”

I stop.

Do not look back. If I look back, I will go to her. And if I go to her, I may tell her everything.

“What?”

Her voice is hoarse when she answers.

“I want to see my sister.”

I close my eyes. For one heartbeat, the past stands in the kitchen with us. Two little girls. One assignment. One choice made in blood and confusion and the kind of fear men like me are not supposed to feel.

Then I open them.

“You will,” I say.

“When?”

I look back then.

She stands in the kitchen wearing another man’s hoodie, cheeks flushed, eyes wet and furious, mouth still swollen from mine. Behind her, the ruined banana lies half under the island with thumbtacks glittering around it like evidence from a crime scene no one will ever know how to explain.

Beautiful, impossible girl.

“Soon,” I say. “I’ll arrange it.”

She hates that answer. I don’t blame her. I leave before she can ask any more questions, the house releasing me with a snick of the door and groan of old wood.

Outside, the night is thick and wet. I cross the drive without looking back at the windows.

I can still feel her mouth. Still taste blood. Still hear the word sister in her ruined voice.

I came to Blackwood House because I was tired of waiting. Now Reva is done waiting too. That will be a problem—for all of us.

Mostly for the woman who still thinks belonging is the same thing as being owned.

She will learn the difference.

Or she will burn us all down refusing.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

REVA

The carriage house is unlocked.

That probably says something about either the arrogance or the paranoia of the men who live here. Maybe both. The Blackwood property has gates, cameras, armed men, and enough implied violence baked into the landscaping that a locked door on an outbuilding would probably be redundant.

Still, the latch gives under my hand, and I step inside before I can talk myself out of it.