Page 267

Still Bitter.

Still an enforcer.

Still morally compromised enough that Scarecrow probably keeps a separate prayer list.

I dry my hands.

Mercy is waiting outside the door.

Of course she is.

“You smell like dirt.”

“Charming.”

Her eyes narrow. “Razor?”

“Dead.”

She goes very still.

“I killed him.”

Mercy studies my face. “You telling me or asking me to hide it?”

“Telling you.”

“And Sweet?”

“She gets the truth.”

Mercy waits.

I force myself to say the rest.

“If she wants to hear it from me, I'll tell her. If she doesn't want to see me, tell her Razor is dead and I killed him. Don't soften it.”

“Why should I be the messenger?”

“Because she didn't ask to see me.”

Mercy watches me a long time.

Then nods.

“That might be the first intelligent thing you've said while smelling like a shallow grave.”

“It wasn't shallow.”

Her eyebrows rise.

I leave before she asks.

An hour later, Mercy finds me in the garage.

“She knows.”

Everything in me tightens. “What'd she say?”