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“It’s okay.”

It is not okay.

Nothing has been okay since yesterday morning, and somehow the universe keeps finding additional basement levels beneath rock bottom.

My phone buzzes again in my hand.

I do not want to look.

I look.

A photograph fills the screen.

For a second, I cannot understand what I am seeing.

Then my knees go weak.

Mama.

Her picture is still inside the repaired wooden frame, the tiny crack Bitter fixed with careful hands visible in one corner. A black-gloved hand grips one side of it.

Behind the frame is Bitter’s nightstand.

His bed.

His wall.

His apartment.

“No.”

Junie is beside me instantly. “What?”

I turn the phone toward her.

She sucks in a breath.

Petal stands, and Lark’s face drains of color.

“That’s upstairs,” I whisper.

Junie looks toward the windows. “Call Hyde.”

I am already hitting Mercy’s number.

It rings.

Again.

Nothing.

“Come on.”

Voicemail.

“No.”

I call again.