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“Why is my new student outside looking like somebody walked over her grave?”

Sweet turns bright so fast I almost respect the performance. “I’m fine.”

Mercy’s gaze cuts to me. “What did you do?”

“Me?”

“That was a yes-or-no question dressed as blame.”

“A Reaper rolled by.”

Mercy’s face changes. She looks at Sweet, then at the road, then back at me. Unlike Sweet, Mercy doesn’t waste time lying badly.

“Inside.”

“My bag is still in my car,” Sweet says.

“I’ll get it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t even know which one is mine.”

I look over the lot. There are six cars, two staff trucks, one hearse, and Petal’s minivan with a bumper sticker that says BABY ON BOARD, PROBABLY POSSESSED. Sweet’s car is easy. Little pale blue hatchback parked near the fence, clean but old, with a sunflower keychain hanging from the rearview and a dent near the back wheel. It looks like it runs on hope and discount gas.

“That one.”

She frowns. “How did you know?”

“You got pink shoes and a yellow cardigan. You were never gonna drive the black truck with deer blood on the tailgate.”

Mercy sighs. “Unfortunately sound reasoning.”

Sweet digs keys from her apron pocket and holds them out, but when I reach, she closes her fingers.

“Don’t snoop.”

“I’m offended.”

“You look delighted.”

“I can be two things.”

She drops the keys into my palm. Her fingers brush mine, barely skin, barely anything.

Still, I feel it.

I head for the car, scanning the road, fence, ditch line, and vendor tents across the way. No Reaper bike. No movement where there shouldn’t be. No reason for the back of my neck to stay hot except instinct, and instinct has kept me alive longer than charm.

The closer I get to Sweet’s car, the clearer the mark becomes.

It’s scratched into the driver’s side door, low and ugly, like somebody used a knife or key and took his sweet time. A crooked raven wing with a split line through it.

Underneath is one word.

OURS.