Page 109 of The Final Cut

“You were making grout.”

Shiloh peeks into the sink. “That could tile a bathroom.”

Delia lowers her gaze to Homer, but I see the corner of her mouth move.

Nash steps fully into the kitchen. “Shiloh.”

Shiloh straightens enough to prove he can be serious when the room demands it. “Everything continues to be fine. Your man outside the ICU is good, but the one by the stairwell needs coffee or a personality transplant.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“I know.”

That short exchange carries the weight of everyone not saying Cal could still turn. Stable is good. Stable is not awake. Stable does not mean safe from Isabel’s reach forever.

Delia’s hand stills on Homer.

I wonder if she is thinking of Cal. The man who kept me alive. The man she might have hated before she knew he was real. The man Isabel wanted dead because he knew where I had been taken.

I want to ask. I do not.

Ever starts over with the eggs. “Poached, then.”

Delia glances up at him. “You can scramble them.”

“I can poach an egg.”

“Can you?”

His stare is level. “Yes.”

I lean toward her, lowering my voice. “I have never seen him poach an egg.”

“That’s because you’re not highbrow enough to ask for one,” Ever says.

“Burn.” Delia’s mouth twitches again. This time, she lets it remain a little longer.

Homer kneads her thigh.

Her whole body tightens, pain flashing across her face before she catches it. The laughter drains out of me at once.

“Don’t,” she says before I can speak.

She looks down at the cat, and her hand hovers over his back like she is deciding whether softness is safe enough to touch twice. Then her fingers sink into his fur, hesitant at first, then with a slow, careful pressure that makes him purr so loud it sounds mechanical.

I have wanted a hug from my sister since I was seven years old. Watching her pet my cat like she has not touched anything soft in years feels worse.

It also feels better.

I have no idea what to do with that.

Shiloh notices. Of course he does. He notices emotional weather the way Ever notices cameras. He grabs plates from the cabinet and begins setting the table with exaggerated stealth, making a show of not watching Delia while also arranging everything so she will not have to reach far. A napkin. Fork. Water glass. The good strawberries. The muffins that won’t break anyone’s teeth.

He places one muffin near Delia. “Peace offering.”

She looks at it. “For what?”

“Existing loudly.”