Page 163 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Exactly.”

A fresh tear slides down my cheek.

I wipe it away.

“He looked at me and said, ‘Told you what I was.’”

“I may kill him after all.”

“No.”

“Minor stabbing?”

“Mercy.”

“Fine.”

She sounds disappointed.

I lean back against the couch and close my eyes.

For one terrible second, the room smells like cedar instead of disinfectant, and my body remembers his bed. His hands. His mouth. The sound he made when I told him I trusted him.

I open my eyes again.

“I can't go back upstairs.”

“You're not.”

“My suitcase is there.”

“I know.”

“Mama's picture.”

“I know.”

I swallow.

The repaired frame is sitting beside his bed. The crack he fixed with careful hands. The picture I trusted him to keep safe.

“I need her.”

“You'll get her.”

“Tonight?”

Mercy studies me.

The thought of walking back into Bitter's apartment tonight makes my stomach twist.

What if he's there?

What if he isn't?

I don't know which would be worse.

“No,” I whisper.