Page 67 of The Final Cut

“No.”

“Then punctuality must be your apology.”

I hold her gaze, tip my head just a bit, as if in confusion. “I didn’t realize I owed one.”

Her smile is small and almost kind. That almost is where she keeps the knives.

“You said your sister needed air,” she says.

“That is what she said, yes.”

“And after that?”

“I was going to bring her to the chapel, as you requested.”

“Were you?”

“Of course.”

“Before or after you walked her off the terrace?”

My skin prickles, but I keep my face still. Fifteen years in this house has taught me many useful things. How to lie without hurrying. How to breathe when watched. How to keep fear from showing its throat.

“She was upset,” I say. “Dragging her straight to the chapel would have made a scene.”

“You have never objected to scenes when they served you.”

“I object to sloppy ones.”

For a moment, her expression does not change.

Then she laughs softly.

“My darling girl.” She steps closer and brushes damp hair from my cheek. “You have always been cleverer than was good for you.”

I stand still beneath the touch.

Flinching has never saved me from anything.

“When you were twelve,” she says, “you understood obedience more clearly.”

When I was twelve, I still thought being chosen meant being loved.

I say nothing.

Her thumb settles under my chin, tilting my face toward the light. “You have been indulging old grief.”

“Reva is alive.”

“Yes.” Her eyes search mine. “This is a sentimental development for you.”

“She is my sister.”

“She was your sister. Then she became a lesson. Now she is a complication.”

The words land exactly where she aims them.

I think of Reva’s face through the pool water. Reva’s voice saying our parents would be disappointed in me. Reva on the terrace with Cal’s blood nearby and fear turning her young again.