Page 167 of Bitter’s Sweet

I point at it with my fork. “I have questions.”

“Most people do.”

“Are you going to answer them?”

“No.”

“Comforting.”

Her mouth twitches, and for half a second, I almost feel normal.

Then my eyes fall to the little overnight bag she found for me last night.

Not my suitcase.

My suitcase is still in Bitter’s apartment.

Mama is still in Bitter’s apartment.

The biscuit turns heavy in my stomach.

Mercy notices. Of course she does.

“You don’t have to go today.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I said tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow. That does not make it a court order.”

I set the plate aside. “I need my things.”

“You have clothes here.”

“Your clothes make me look like a widowed school principal.”

“You say that like it’s bad.”

“My mother’s picture is there.”

That ends the joke.

Mercy folds her hands in her lap. “I know.”

“I left her beside his bed.”

“You did.”

“I don’t want her there anymore.”

Her eyes stay on mine. “Then we get her.”

I nod, and the pressure in my chest eases slightly.

“Together,” she adds.