6. Deacon #2
“Are you?” She steps closer again. “Because she looked at me tonight and I saw it. Whatever she has become, whatever Cal made her, whatever her life was, she is still Reva. Stubborn as fuck. She will pull every wire out of the wall if she thinks there is an answer behind it.”
“She already has.”
“Then stop her.”
“I don’t think any of us can stop her.”
“You mean you don’t want to.”
I look toward the door Nash used, then back to her.
“No,” I say. “I mean it may be too late for so many things.”
Delia’s lips press together. For a moment, she looks younger than she is. Then older. Then only tired.
“She just shouldn’t have come,” she whispers.
“No. But she’s here now, and I’ll take care of her.”
The answer surprises her. It surprises me too. But it is true.
Reva should not have come to New Orleans.
She should not have walked into Noir. She should not have found my name, my city, my sins.
She should have stayed in Chicago with Cal and her EMT books and her terrible aim and her hyena laugh.
She should have lived a life where the past remained a locked room behind her.
But she did come. And some ugly, selfish part of me is glad. Delia sees that too.
Her mouth twists. “You care about her.”
“Yes.”
The admission leaves no room for maneuvering. She absorbs it like another insult, turning away. For a few seconds, she says nothing. When she finally speaks, her voice is so low I almost miss it under the music of the club.
“She laughed when she saw me.”
I remember the sound. Cracked. Impossible. Full of disbelief and grief and impossible, indescribable joy.
“She said, ‘you’re alive.’ Like that was the whole world.” Delia’s hand goes to her throat. “I wanted to touch her.”
I stay silent.
“I wanted to shake her, too.”
“That’s allowed.”
Her eyes fill again, and this time she does not wipe the tears quickly enough to pretend they are anything else.
“I don’t know which one I hate more,” she says. “That she lived without me, or that I’m glad she did.”
My chest aches. I don’t tell her that’s love. She’s too smart not to know it and too angry to want the word.
“She’ll want to talk to you,” I say.
Delia’s face closes. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t.”
“You will.”
“You don’t get to order me around, Deacon.”
“No. But the past has already found you both. You can either speak before it does, or let it choose the language and the time for you.”
She stares at me.
“You are such an asshole.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“From women with excellent judgment, I’m sure.”
“A few.”
The smallest breath leaves her. Humor without amusement. Still, it is better than tears.
Then the door opens again.
A man in a black suit appears just inside it, smart enough not to step all the way into the room. One of Nash’s. Young. Alert. Trying not to look at Delia’s face.
“Mr. Blackwood said to tell you Miss Hart left with Mr. Lafitte and Mr. Rousseau. They’re back at the house now.”
Relief hits before I can stop it. Reva is safe.
The man’s gaze flicks to Delia, then away. “He also said you’re not to go there tonight.”
I almost laugh. Of course he did.
“Tell Mr. Blackwood I remain moved by his concern.”
The man does not know what to do with that.
Delia does. “He means go away before he throws something at you.”
The man goes, the door closing behind him. For a moment, Delia and I stand in the quiet he leaves behind.
“She’s with Shiloh?” she asks.
“And Ever.”
Her face does something I cannot read. Maybe relief. Maybe jealousy. Maybe grief discovering another hallway.
“They’ll take care of her,” I say.
Delia’s eyes sharpen. “Do you believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to stay away tonight?”
I look at the door. Nash’s warning sits there. Reva’s face sits under it. Delia’s tears. Cal’s silence. Fifteen years of decisions I made because every other option looked worse.
“No,” I say honestly. “But I will.”
Delia nods once, then walks to the door. With her hand on the knob, she pauses.
“Deacon. If she finds out what really happened…”
“She will.”
“What happens then?”
I think of Reva’s hand reaching for her sister. Reva’s face when Delia recoiled. Reva walking into Noir with vengeance in her bones and a question sharp enough to cut through fifteen years of blood and lies.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Delia opens the door.
This time, I let her go without another word.
When the door closes, I pick up the bourbon I poured and finally drink it.
Nash is wrong about one thing. I do need him to protect Reva from someone. Just not from me.
From Mother Superior. From Cal’s silence. From the truth I have kept alive in the dark for fifteen years, feeding it pieces of myself so it would not crawl out and find her before she was old enough to survive it.
I set the empty glass down.
Tomorrow, I will speak to Reva. If she lets me.
If the past gives us one more night before it starts collecting what it is owed.
I look toward the wall, toward the faint vibration of music and footsteps and all the hidden arteries of Noir Night.
Then I close my eyes and see her at nineteen again, throwing paper balls at a trash can and laughing like nothing in the world had ever broken.
That was the life I chose for her.
A life where she missed the trash and barked at neighbors and studied how to keep people breathing. A life with stupid socks and cold coffee. A life without me.
It was the only decent thing I ever gave her.
And tonight, she walked straight back into my hands.