Page 178 of The Final Cut

Marisol is coming here.

I try again.

My mother is coming to Noir.

The words still don’t belong together. She sent Delia one message before dawn.

St. Agnes moved up. East gate. Thirty minutes.

After that, the suite turned into controlled violence. Men moving. Phones buzzing. Nash making calls in a voice that stripped the air of argument. Delia giving directions with her lips pressed white. Deacon leaving first because he knew the gate. Shiloh packing medical supplies nobody admitted might be needed. Ever building routes through cameras and dead spots and service doors.

I was told to wait.

Naturally, I handled that with grace, patience, and only three threats.

Now we’re at Noir because Nash decided a closed bar with public frontage, private exits, reinforced back rooms, staff presence, and familiar geography was better than another pretty box where Isabel could guess we were hiding.

Semi-public, he called it.

I call it standing inside one of the first places that ruined my life and waiting for my dead mother to walk through the back.

The rag squeaks against the bar.

Ever glances over.

“Don’t say it.”

He lifts both hands, one still wrapped around a bourbon bottle. “I didn’t.”

“You considered it.”

“No, I considered taking that rag away before you ruin my polish job.”

I clutch it tighter. “Touch this rag and lose a finger.”

Shiloh sets another chair down. “They’re trauma bonded.”

I glance down at the gray cloth. “This rag understands my pain.”

Delia looks into her coffee. “It’s a rag, Reva.”

“It’s been more emotionally available than several people in this room.”

Shiloh puts a hand to his chest. “That surely wasn’t directed at me. I’m a treasure.”

Ever snorts once.

I wipe the same spot again and try not to look at the back hallway. The old one behind Nash’s office, the one staff use when they don’t want to cross the main floor. The one that still smells faintly charred beneath the bleach and lemon oil. Deacon disappeared that way ten minutes ago after one short call. He didn’t announce that she was close. He only looked at Nash and walked.

I know what his silence means.

Delia slides off the table, leaving her coffee untouched behind her. The door in the back opens.

No one speaks.

The bar goes still in pieces. Shiloh pauses with one hand on the back of a chair. Ever sets a bottle down without a sound. Nash appears in the office doorway as if he’s been waiting with his hand on the knob.

I turn toward the hallway.