Page 149 of Bitter’s Sweet

Mercy closes her eyes. “I need a vacation from everyone I know.”

Despite myself, I laugh.

Uncle Cletus has added a possum minister to the squirrel wedding. Mourning Adams is reading palms beneath a sign that says LOVE, DEATH, AND PARKING VALIDATION, while Vesper is selling little charm bags marked GOOD LUCK, BAD MEN, TAX AUDIT.

Sheriff the rooster watches me from his crate.

“Don’t,” I warn him as we pass.

He pecks the bars.

Mercy glances at me. “Arguing with poultry is usually Boogie’s job.”

“I’m branching out.”

“You’re nervous.”

“I’m carrying meat toward a man I threatened emotionally this morning.”

“You didn’t threaten him.”

“I thought very aggressive thoughts.”

“Then Bitter is lucky telepathy ain’t one of your gifts.”

The coffin workshop sits behind the main funeral building, long and low with wide bay doors for moving finished pieces. One door is partly open, but the smaller side entrance is closed. Music from the carnival reaches us faintly here, but everything else feels quieter.

Mercy stops near the steps.

“I’ll wait.”

I look at her.

“Right here,” she adds before I can argue. “You get your conversation. I get to know Razor Maddox ain’t hiding inside a decorative urn.”

“That feels like compromise.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

I hold the plate against my stomach and climb the steps, my pulse getting louder with every one.

At the door, I stop.

Part of me wants to turn around. Not because I’m scared of Bitter, but because I’m scared he won’t be who I thought he was last night.

That feels much worse.

I open the door.

The workshop smells like sawdust, varnish, leather, and something warmer beneath it.

Perfume.

My feet stop.

There is a sound from deeper inside. A woman, soft and breathless.

For one second, my brain refuses to make sense of it.