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His smile changes.

Then he tosses the frame toward the cracked edge of the old concrete pad.

Sweet jerks forward.

I step.

Razor yanks her back.

“Careful.”

The picture lands near the rim.

Doesn't go over.

Barely.

Sweet's eyes lock onto it.

“Mama.”

The word leaves her like a wound.

I hate Razor then.

Clean. Simple. No confusion. Nothing complicated left in it.

“You think this makes you strong?” I ask. “Hiding behind a woman and threatening a dead one?”

“She belongs to me.”

“No,” Sweet says again.

Razor looks down at her. “You always were stubborn.”

“I learned.”

“From him?”

Sweet's gaze flicks to me.

“No.”

Good.

That should hurt.

It does.

“I learned from me.”

Something close to pride rises in my chest.

I crush it.

This is not about me.

Razor lifts one hand.