Page 259 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Enough.”

That does not sound like talking.

I follow Nevermore through the funeral home.

The lower room is not a dungeon.

Calling it one would be dramatic.

It is a storage room with concrete walls, a floor drain, one metal table, two chairs, and no windows.

So, functionally, dungeon-adjacent.

Razor sits in one chair with his hands secured behind him. Somebody cleaned the blood off his face enough to keep him conscious. The leg Sweet stabbed is bandaged badly because nobody down here cares about bedside manner.

Hyde stands against one wall.

CSI has two phones and a tablet spread across the table.

Boogie is conspicuously absent, probably because somebody realized interrogation works better when one participant does not keep offering novelty pliers.

Razor looks at me.

There is still arrogance in his smile.

I hate men who survive long enough to confuse luck with invincibility.

“Bitter.”

“Razor.”

His gaze drops to the bandage on my arm.

“Your girl cut me worse.”

“She ain't my girl.”

His smile widens. “Still saying that after all this?”

I stop in front of him.

“She’s herself.”

His brows twitch.

“You really swallowed all that independent-woman shit quick.”

“No. I finally listened.”

Razor laughs.

The sound makes every violent thing in me stretch awake.

I keep it leashed.

Hyde watches me.

“That van gave us routes,” I say. “Codes. Schedules. Somebody fed you access.”