Page 210 of Bitter’s Sweet

I absolutely should not.

My fingers touch the palette knife inside my pocket.

Mama’s face stares up from the phone.

Two minutes.

I make the worst decision of my life for reasons that feel completely reasonable while my heart is still bleeding from the last one.

I am not going to Razor.

I am going to the coffin booth.

Only the booth.

Just far enough for him to see me and keep watching me instead of looking for Hyde’s men. Just long enough to keep him from dropping the frame.

Then I yell.

Then I run back toward the crowd.

Every stupid choice starts with words like just long enough.

I move down the rear hall.

Nobody notices.

The rear employee door waits beside the supply shelves. Its keypad disarms the exit alarm, but the panic bar opens the door either way. My fingers shake once before I punch in the student code.

The light turns green.

I push the door open and slip outside.

Cold air hits my face.

The building blocks me from Mercy’s view immediately.

That should send me back.

Instead, I move.

The path behind the school is narrow and cluttered with stacked folding chairs, plastic skeletons, unused signs, and cases of cider. Festival noise swallows my footsteps.

I come around the corner.

The coffin photo booth is twenty yards away, families still crowding the front. Behind it is a narrow service lane.

My phone buzzes.

Good girl.

My stomach turns.

I hate those words.

Razor knows that.

I move toward the booth slowly, scanning jackets, helmets, and faces.