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His bloody smile widens. “Look at you. House-trained.”

Bitter says nothing.

Razor looks at me instead. “He don’t want you either. Saw that yourself, didn’t you?”

I go still.

Of course he is not done.

Razor never leaves a wound alone if he can put another finger in it.

“What was it, Doll?”

Bitter’s jaw tightens.

Razor grins. “Not enough?”

The ruined concrete plant seems to hold its breath. Beyond the trees, the carnival carries on with music, laughter, and someone cheering over something stupid and harmless.

The whole town is lit up and having fun while I sit beside a murder hole holding my mother’s cracked picture after nearly dying because a man knew exactly which fresh wound to press.

This is what Razor does.

He makes the normal world feel insulting for continuing without permission.

Bitter turns toward me.

I wish he wouldn’t.

I wish he would.

His face is wrecked open in a way I have never seen. Not physically, though he looks bad enough. Blood streaks his arm. Dirt coats his shirt. A cut marks his cheek.

His eyes are worse.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words.

Too small.

Too late.

Still, they hit something tender enough to make me want to cry.

Razor laughs. “Sorry. That’s cute.”

Hyde presses a boot harder between Razor’s shoulder blades.

The laugh dies in a grunt.

Bitter takes one step toward me.

I force myself to stand before he can reach me. My legs shake. My wrist is swelling. Gravel sticks to my palms. Mama’s frame has another crack along one corner, but the glass over her face held.

Of course it did.

Mama always was tougher than she looked.