Page 65 of Priest

Not at me. Not at Ink.

At the ceiling, like she’s lining something up inside herself.

Her voice, when it comes, is calm. Even. Almost clinical.

“Jackson was my brother’s best friend.”

The monitor chirps.

Not an alarm, but sharp enough to cut the quiet. The heart rate ticks up, not much, maybe five beats, maybe ten. His breathing shifts, shallow for a second before settling again.

Then his fingers twitch.

Just once.

Ink steps over immediately, but I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

Lila’s gaze drops to the monitor, then to his hand, then back to the numbers. Her grip tightens slightly, professional instinct snapping into place so fast I almost miss the way her face changes underneath it.

“Reflex response,” she says quietly. “Auditory stimulus.”

Her voice doesn’t shake, but something in her posture does. It’s small, barely there, like she’s bracing herself from the inside, muscles locking down around a feeling she’s not ready to name.

Ink leans in slightly, eyes on the monitor instead of Deacon’s face. He doesn’t touch anything. Doesn’t adjust a single line.

“Timing matches,” he says low. “Identity recognition.”

Lila nods once.

A pause settles over the room, heavy and careful.

“If you spoke to him again,” Ink adds, his tone measured now, “we could see if the response repeats. Consistency matters.”

She keeps her gaze on Deacon’s hand, thumb still resting just beneath his knuckles. When she answers, her voice stays calm and professional.

“No.”

The word isn’t sharp. It isn’t defensive. It’s final.

Ink studies her for half a second longer, reading more in her stillness than in her answer. Then he straightens, steps back, and gives her the space without comment.

“Alright,” he says quietly.

She doesn’t say Deacon’s name again. She doesn’t test it. She doesn’t push. She sits back down, resumes the quiet vigil, and lets his vitals settle into their steady rhythm.

I understand then that whatever she’s protecting in herself matters more than answers tonight.

I’ve seen men take bullets without flinching. This hurts worse.

The door opens a few minutes later, and the spell breaks.

“Okay,” a voice announces far too brightly for the hour, “either I have wildly misjudged hospital etiquette, or this is officially biker night.”

Lila closes her eyes. “Evan.”

He steps in with a grin, a paper bag in one hand and coffee in the other. He takes one look at her face, and the grin softens just enough to show the man underneath all that glittering noise.

“You’ve been doing this every night,” he says, gentler now. “You need sleep before you start charting on walls.”