Page 168

“I assumed.”

“Good.”

“I can walk up the stairs by myself.”

“Wonderful. I’ll supervise your independence.”

“Mercy.”

“Sweet.”

I sigh.

She wins.

Again.

I drink more coffee.

Outside, I can hear motorcycles beginning to move along the property. Festival traffic already hums farther down the road. Somewhere a rooster screams like he has discovered betrayal personally.

“Sheriff?”

“Sheriff.”

“He sounds judgmental.”

“He woke up that way.”

“I understand him better now.”

Mercy stands. “Finish eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You already ate half.”

“That feels invasive.”

“Ten minutes.”

She leaves before I can argue.

I look at the food, then the overnight bag, then myself in the mirror over the dresser.

My eyes are puffy. My hair is a mess. I look exactly like a woman who cried over a biker in a coffin.

Absolutely not.

I get dressed.

The only clean clothes I have are things Mercy found for me from somewhere in the School of the Dead emergency closet. Black jeans that fit surprisingly well and a soft gray shirt with tiny embroidered skulls near one shoulder.

My pink shoes are mine.

I wear them.

That feels important.