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My hands are shaking, so I shove them into the pockets of my jeans.

My fingertips hit something thin and hard.

The palette knife.

I must have slipped it into my pocket after cleaning the station. Mercy gave it to me yesterday for restorative work. It is small and flat, sharp enough at the tip for wax and tiny details.

Not a weapon.

Better than fingernails.

I leave it there.

Mercy notices the movement. “What?”

“Nothing.”

She narrows her eyes.

I pull my hand out empty. “See?”

“That proves absolutely nothing.”

Crypt looks between us. “Do I want context?”

“No,” we say together.

He nods. “Great.”

Outside, the festival noise begins changing. It does not stop, but redirects. Announcements come over the speakers about temporarily closing the south lane. Bikes start. Boots move.

The Grave Prowlers are locking down the property.

That should make me feel safer.

Yesterday it might have.

Today, the club feels like a house where half the doors belong to people I do not know and one man I did trust stood in the middle of the garage and told me I never mattered.

I hate how quickly hurt can poison safety.

Mercy catches me staring toward the garage.

“Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“I don't care where he is.”

“That was a lie.”

“Tell Sheriff.”

“He already knows.”

Crypt looks baffled.