Page 272 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Razor is dead.”

No softening. No euphemism. No pretending he got transferred to a nice correctional facility where everybody discusses feelings and learns pottery.

Dead.

I had been sitting at the little dresser in the funeral home guest room with Mama’s repaired picture in my hands when Mercy told me. Bitter had fixed the broken corner from behind, reinforced the backing, replaced one bent tab, and left the thin crack running through the wood because apparently even he had finally learned not everything has to look untouched to be worth keeping.

I stared at Mama’s face for several seconds before asking the only question that really mattered.

“Bitter?”

Mercy nodded.

“He killed him.”

I thought I would feel something dramatic. Horror. Satisfaction. Grief. Maybe the kind of righteous relief women in movies get when the monster finally falls off a building and everybody knows the credits are coming.

Instead, I sat there holding my mother’s photograph and felt tired.

Then safe.

That second feeling bothered me more.

“Did he ask you to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't he come himself?”

Mercy had looked at me over the top of her glasses.

“Because you didn't ask to see him.”

That bothered me too.

Apparently Bitter respecting a boundary is going to continue feeling like being stabbed with a much smaller, emotionally responsible knife.

I asked what happened, and Mercy told me enough. Not details I did not request. Not club mythology. Not some romantic version where Bitter rode into the moonlight carrying my honor like a banner.

Razor had given the club what information he was going to give them. Bitter made the choice to end the threat. Razor ended up in the same murder hole he tried to use on me.

Circular. Morbid. Extremely Grave Prowlers.

I should probably be more disturbed.

I am disturbed.

That is the problem with being honest.

I can be disturbed that Bitter intentionally killed a man and still admit I slept better that night than I had in months.

Both things fit.

Razor cannot text me again. He cannot put a tracker on another car or break into another motel room. He cannot call me Doll like the word gives him ownership. He cannot stand behind a tree, a vendor booth, a gas station, or some future apartment I have not rented yet.

He cannot come back.

There is a peace in that I do not know what to do with.