Page 69 of The Final Cut

I know better than to ask which daughter she means. Maybe Reva. Maybe all of us.

Maybe me.

“I haven’t forgotten,” I say.

“Good.” She picks up her spoon again. “Then remember this too. Reva lives because too many people chose sentiment at the wrong moment. That will not happen twice.”

My chest goes still.

“And Deacon?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Her eyes lift. The mistake sits between us, small and fatal.

Isabel smiles with her mouth closed. “Ah.”

I hate that sound.

“You have questions about Deacon.”

“Nevermind.”

“Don’t get scared now, dear. Be bold.”

Heat crawls up my neck.

She leans back in her chair. “Deacon made himself useful for many years because he understood the difference between attachment and loyalty. Then your sister returned, and he mistook an old trespass for devotion.”

My hand tightens around the spoon.

Isabel’s gaze softens. I despise and fear her most when she looks gentle.

“You have survived because I allowed sentiment in controlled doses,” she says. “Do not confuse that mercy with permission.”

The warning slides under my skin.

She may kill Reva.

She may kill Cal.

She may kill Deacon.

She may kill me if I become too expensive to keep.

I have known that in pieces for years. Tonight, the pieces lock together.

The family she claims to protect has always been a room full of people waiting to learn which one will be sacrificed next.

I pick up my spoon. My hand does not shake. That is the only victory I am allowed at this table.

Isabel watches me take another bite.

“Good girl,” she says.

The soup turns to ash in my mouth, and I lower my eyes because that is what she expects. Under the table, hidden by linen and shadow, I press my bruised wrist hard against the edge of my chair until pain flashes bright and clean.

Reva is alive. Cal is alive. Deacon is loose.

Isabel wants them all brought to heel.