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Because of course he does.

His gaze drops for half a second before coming back to my face, and that tiny shift is enough to make my pulse trip.

I keep walking anyway.

Behind me, his voice follows, low. “Sweet.”

I pause but don’t turn.

“If he texts again, you show me.”

I look back. “Ask nicer next time.”

His brows lift.

I smile.

He grumbles something that sounds like a curse and looks away first. It feels like a victory, a small one, maybe a stupid one, but mine.

The rest of the afternoon moves in bursts of death, glitter, and very questionable event planning. Mercy puts me at the demonstration table with Junie, who teaches me how to set out cosmetics without contaminating tools. Petal shows me the appointment book for school services, including “touch-up before viewing,” “restoration observation,” and “festival face painting, living only unless otherwise approved.”

Lark sneaks me crackers and tells me the trick to surviving bikers is to never let them know which compliment worked.

“That sounds manipulative.”

“It’s educational.”

Uncle Cletus stops by carrying the groom squirrel because the tiny flask fell off and he needs glue. He tells me I have “good steady taxidermy hands,” which Mercy says is not legally binding praise.

“I already told her she has good hands,” Mercy says.

I look at her.

She frowns. “Don’t make it weird.”

Something warm settles behind my ribs. I touch the little palette knife through the side of my apron.

Maybe I can actually do this.

Mourning Adams reads my tea leaves even though I am drinking coffee and tells me I have a shadow with teeth behind me and a shovel in front of me. Vesper smacks her arm.

“Don’t scare the girl before supper.”

“I’m not scared.”

Both twins look at me.

Sheriff pecks his crate.

Vesper sighs. “Baby, even the chicken knows that’s a lie.”

By the time the sun starts sliding lower, the festival is louder, brighter, and stranger. The soft opening has begun. People drift between booths carrying cider and paper trays of barbecue. Someone starts playing fiddle music near Main Street. Skull lights blink awake one strand at a time, and the smell of fried dough mixes with sawdust and motor oil.

For a little while, I let myself believe I can belong here. Not forever, maybe. Forever is a word I don’t trust, but for now. Now has always been safer.

Then I see Bitter near my car, crouched beside the front tire with CSI and Ghoul.

My stomach drops.