Page 87 of The Final Cut

Isabel touched it because she wanted all of them to feel her hand close around something they claimed.

I walk back to the main room before anyone can stop me.

The floor squishes under my shoes in places. Dirty water streaks across black tile. A line of smoke marks the wall behind the bar, reaching up like fingers toward the shelves. Bottles glitter through the haze, some cracked from heat, some standing perfectly straight like they’ve decided dignity is their final act.

I grab a towel from behind the bar and start wiping.

The towel turns gray immediately. Completely useless. I keep going.

Sonny comes around the other side and takes another towel. She starts on a lower shelf without asking.

“You don’t have to,” I say.

“Neither do you.”

Fair.

We clean one tiny, stupid patch of bar while firefighters move in and out, while Nash and Ever speak in low voices near the hall, while Deacon disappears outside and comes back with more bad silence on his face.

Shiloh watches us for a minute. Then he climbs over a puddle, grabs a third towel, and joins us.

“Nash is going to say this is evidence,” he says.

“Probably,” I tell him.

“Ever will agree.”

“Definitely.”

“So we should stop?”

I look at the black streak beneath my hand.

“No.”

His mouth curves faintly. “Thank God. I hate being sensible during emotional property damage.”

We clean until Nash comes back and takes the towel from my hand.

I glare at him.

He lifts one brow. “The fire marshal is five seconds from arresting you for contaminating a scene.”

“Tell him to get in line.”

“Little wolf.”

The softness under it lands harder than the warning. My grip loosens.

He sets the towel down, then cups the side of my face with one smoke-smelling hand. His thumb brushes my cheekbone once. I don’t know if he leaves soot there or wipes it away.

“She did this to pull focus,” he says. “We give Noir what it needs. Then we go back to Delia.”

I nod because he’s right, and because I don’t have room to fight everything at once.

Shiloh leans against the bar behind us, eyes on the room. “We’ll fix it.”

Nash looks at him. “Yes.”