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My hand closes around the keys until metal bites my palm.

Some men threaten loud because they want attention. Others leave little marks and wait for fear to do the talking.

I crouch without touching the damage. Fresh paint curls at the edges. This happened while she was inside watching Raven’s funeral, while she was laughing at Mercy’s warnings, while I was in church pretending her refusal had not been sitting under my skin like a thorn.

A Reaper circling our grounds could be about the shipment.

This ain’t.

This is personal.

I unlock the car. Her bag sits on the passenger seat, plain brown leather worn at the strap. There’s a sweater, a stack of textbooks, strawberry gum, and a folded photograph tucked halfway beneath the center console.

I told her I wouldn’t snoop. I don’t. Much. She can be pissed at me later. Pissed and breathing beats agreeable and dead.

The visible edge shows Sweet standing beside a man in a Ravenfork Reapers cut. Younger Sweet, maybe, though there ain’t enough time between then and now for it to be years. His arm is hooked around her shoulders too tight to look casual. Her mouth is smiling.

Her eyes ain’t.

I can’t see his whole face. Beard. Mouth. Bottom rocker. Part of his road name.

R-A-Z.

My teeth grind.

The placement feels wrong.

Too visible.

Too easy.

Maybe Sweet left it there.

Maybe somebody wanted it found.

Either way, I’ve seen enough.

I take her bag, lock the car, and walk back.

Sweet reaches for it.

I don’t hand it over.

Her eyes narrow. “Bitter.”

“Who is Razor?”

She goes still.

Mercy curses softly. “Jesus.”

That answer is enough.

“Inside,” I tell Sweet.

She lifts her chin. “Give me my bag.”

“Inside first.”