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Trixie looks into the coffin, looks back at me, and laughs once.

“You are a fucked-up man.”

“Been told.”

She climbs in anyway.

I follow.

And somewhere beneath the whiskey, fear, and old ghosts, the last decent part of me knows exactly what I’m doing.

I already betrayed Sweet for the club.

Now I’m about to make damn sure she never trusts me enough to let me do it twice.

Chapter Nine

Sweet

By late afternoon, I have not forgiven Bitter Adams.

That is important enough that I keep reminding myself, because apparently a woman can be furious enough to imagine setting a man on fire and still wonder whether he has eaten lunch. Human nature is humiliating.

Bitter betrayed me this morning. Not accidentally. Not because Razor tricked him or because Bitter misunderstood what I meant when I told him my choices mattered. He stood in his garage, looked me in the eye, and admitted he let the Grave Prowlers put Razor’s tracker back on my car after promising me they wouldn’t.

Then he gave me the excuse men like him always seem to think should fix everything.

The club needed it.

Club comes first.

I know exactly what those words mean because I spent too long with another man who thought having a reason gave him ownership of the decision.

Bitter isn’t Razor. I know that.

That might be why what he did hurts worse.

Razor never made me believe he understood the difference.

Bitter did.

All day, I throw myself into the School of the Dead because dead people are wonderfully uncomplicated about betrayal. They do not lie. They do not promise not to use your fear and then hold a meeting about how useful it might be. They do not sleep wrapped around you all night and choose a motorcycle club before breakfast.

Mostly, they lie there and let you work.

Mercy keeps me busy enough that I almost appreciate her cruelty. Almost. She has me matching restorative color, cleaning brushes, helping Junie reset the demonstration table, and practicing wax edges until my fingers ache.

“You’re pressing too hard,” she tells me.

“I’m imagining it’s someone’s face.”

“That explains it.”

Lark leans around a supply cart. “Whose?”

“No one.”

Junie snorts.