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Mercy folds her arms. “You sure you want to ask that?”

No.

Yes.

I breathe through it.

“Did she ask to see me?”

“No.”

That is the answer that matters.

I nod.

Mercy studies me. “She asked whether Razor was really dead.”

“What'd you tell her?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She cried.”

My stomach twists. “Because I killed him?”

“She didn't explain.”

I close my mouth.

Old me would demand details. Would need to know whether the tears mean fear, relief, grief, shock, or disgust. Would turn Mercy into a translator because uncertainty makes me itch.

Sweet gets to have feelings without reporting them to me.

“Okay.”

Mercy's expression changes. “That's it?”

“That's it.”

She turns to leave.

“Mercy.”

She looks back.

“If she asks anything about it, you tell her the truth.”

“I generally do.”

“Even if it makes me look bad.”

“That won't be difficult.”

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”