Page 214 of Bitter’s Sweet

A truck pulls toward the closed side lane, and I lift one hand.

“Other entrance.”

The driver points toward a vendor pass on his dashboard.

“Other entrance.”

“But they told me deliveries could come through here.”

“Not anymore.”

Something in my face convinces him that arguing with a heavily armed biker beside a cemetery before sunset is not how he wants to spend his Monday.

He backs up.

Good choice.

My phone vibrates.

For one stupid second, my heart kicks because some rotten part of me thinks Sweet.

That part hasn't learned shit either.

Hyde.

I answer. “Yeah.”

“School.”

One word.

Wrong tone.

Every muscle in my body tightens. “What happened?”

“Razor.”

I am already moving toward my bike.

“Sweet?”

“She was inside with Mercy.”

Was.

The world narrows.

“What do you mean was?”

“Get here.”

The call ends.

I don't remember starting the bike. I remember the tires spitting gravel. Festival workers jumping out of the lane. One prospect shouting my name as I cut between the funeral home and the coffin workshop.

Then I am off the bike and running toward the School of the Dead.

The front door stands open.