Page 32 of The Final Cut

The marsh goes quiet. The range lights buzz. Broken china glitters in the dirt at my feet, sharp little pieces of someone else’s ugly history. The men stand around me with their mouths closed, and the space between us turns strange, muffled, like I’ve sunk under dark water and they are all watching from the surface.

Maybe I said it too softly, and they didn’t hear me.

I pull in a breath that scrapes all the way down.

“No,” I say again, louder and more firmly this time.

Ever stares at me. The light catches on the hard line of his jaw and the sweat darkening the neck of his shirt. His eyes stay on mine for one long second. Then he shakes his head a little and clamps his lips shut, like he is cutting off any words before they can come out wrong.

He turns and walks away. Just like that.

Past Nash. Past the shattered plates. Toward the side of the cabin where the shadows gather thick between the cypress trees.

For a second, I only stare after him.

“What the hell is he doing?”

Shiloh bends to pick up another piece of broken china. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and drops the shard into the bucket. The sound of porcelain hitting porcelain makes something in my chest jump.

I whirl on him. “What the hell is this? Silent treatment?”

Shiloh’s hand tightens around the bucket handle. He looks up at me, and for once, there is no smile waiting to rescue either of us.

“We can’t fight you when you’re determined to be your own worst enemy, Reva.”

The use of my name stings.

His voice is low, rough at the edges. Frustrated. Tired. Still tender somewhere beneath it, which makes the frustration harder to dodge.

“We are trying our damndest to keep you alive,” he says. “You are making that difficult.”

I flinch.

I hate that I do. I hate that a few blunt words from Shiloh are harder to deal with than gunfire or Nash’s orders or Deacon’s quiet truths. Maybe because Shiloh usually gives me softness wrapped in mischief. When he stops wrapping it, I feel the edges.

“I’m not trying to be difficult.”

“I know.”

The quick answer takes some of the heat out of me. His face softens, though the frustration stays. He sets the bucket down and wipes his hands on his ruined pants.

“That’s the part tearing me up,” he says. “If you were pitching a fit for the fun of it, I could handle that. This is you…hurting.”

The marsh hums around us. Frogs, insects, water shifting against the pilings. The sounds slide into the silence Ever left behind.

My throat closes. I look toward the darkness where he went, then back to Shiloh.

“I can’t just sit here.”

He glances at Nash, who remains conspicuously silent. “I know that, too.”

“I can’t just hide while Cal is lying in that bed. While Delia is with her.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I do. We all do.”