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“That is not a coffee face.”

“Please focus on the corpse.”

“The corpse is less obvious.”

I return to Mr. Avery.

Three months ago, I did not know whether staying in Tennessee would feel brave or stupid.

Now my textbooks live in a locker downstairs, and my pink shoes have a permanent spot beneath my workstation. I know which funeral-home cabinet sticks in damp weather, which coffee Mercy pretends not to like, and which corner of the break room Petal claims whenever the baby starts kicking hard enough to make her swear.

I know Vesper cheats at cards.

Mourning cheats worse.

Boogie cannot keep a secret unless it is actually important, at which point he becomes terrifyingly competent.

Nevermore drinks tea when nobody is looking.

CSI still has not found the Ravenfork leak.

That part is less charming.

The club changed every code twice. Shipment routes shifted. Cameras were replaced. Three men got questioned hard enough that everybody became very polite about passwords.

Razor’s phones gave CSI pieces, enough to know somebody had been feeding Ravenfork information for longer than Razor had been stalking me, but not enough to know who.

Bitter hates unfinished problems.

I know that too.

He no longer uses that hatred as an excuse to take over my decisions.

That is the difference.

My phone buzzes again.

BITTER: Also food?

I look toward the doorway where Sheriff disappeared with half my lunch.

ME: Yes.

BITTER: What happened?

ME: Poultry-related crime.

BITTER: On my way.

I smile.

He knows exactly which poultry.

Ten minutes later, Bitter walks into the preparation room carrying two coffees and a paper bag, dressed in a black shirt, jeans, his cut, boots, and enough beard to still look dangerous enough that Mr. Avery’s daughter would probably reconsider the haunting threat if she saw him.

Still mine only because I continue choosing him.

That part matters.