Page 248 of Bitter’s Sweet

Scarecrow waits in the doorway like a shadow in a chaplain patch. Petal brings water. Vesper Adams appears with a blanket. Mourning follows with Sheriff tucked under one arm like a feathered bodyguard.

“No roosters in my guest room,” Mercy says without looking up.

“He’s emotional support poultry.”

Sheriff pecks at the air.

Despite everything, I laugh.

It turns into a sob halfway through.

Mercy takes Mama’s frame before I drop it and sets it carefully on the dresser.

Then she pulls me against her.

I cry.

Quietly at first.

Then harder.

Not because Bitter rescued me. Not because Razor almost killed me. Not only because I caught Bitter with another woman.

Everything comes out together. Three months of running. Razor. The tracker. The motel. My car. Bitter and trust and the club. The coffin. The garage. A woman I fucked. Not enough. The hole. Mama’s face behind cracked glass.

All of it.

Eventually, my body gets tired.

The room empties a little at a time.

Petal kisses my forehead and goes downstairs. Crypt tells Mercy what to watch for with my wrist before leaving. Scarecrow says he will be right outside. The twins argue over whether Sheriff should sleep in a basket or on a throne until Mercy threatens to turn both of them into teaching cadavers.

Sheriff objects loudly.

Finally, it is mostly quiet.

Just me, Mercy, Mama’s picture, a glass of water, a wrapped wrist, a cheek that aches every time I move my jaw, and festival lights pulsing faintly against the window.

I should hate Bitter. Part of me does.

I hate him for the tracker and for saying club comes first after making me believe my choice mattered. I hate him for Trixie, for cheating after looking me in the eye and promising no other women, for the coffin, and for Told you what I was, sunshine, like cruelty becomes honorable if a man warns you first.

I hate him for standing in front of his club and turning me into some woman who misunderstood sex because he was too scared to admit it meant something to him too.

For not enough.

I hate that he made me believe I was safe with him and then became another man making decisions for me because his reasons felt bigger than mine.

But I do not hate him for Razor.

That matters too.

Razor owns Razor.

I am done handing men responsibility for other men’s sins just because separating the blame is harder.

Bitter owns his.