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A red bandana lies folded inside, black thread stitching the corner with a raven wing and one word.

DOLL.

The room goes cold.

Sweet’s hand hovers over it, trembling once before she curls her fingers into a fist.

Nobody speaks.

Then Ghoul says, softly for once, “Want me to bag it?”

Sweet shakes her head.

I step beside her. “Did you bring that?”

“No.”

Her voice is steady. Too steady.

I pull a spare glove from my cut and pick up the bandana. It smells faintly like smoke and cologne.

Not hers.

Razor’s.

The enforcer in me starts making a list without permission. How long Razor would stay conscious. Which hand carved her car. Which fingers typed Doll. How much truth a man gives when pain makes lying inconvenient.

Sweet is standing beside me, so I keep every bit of that behind my teeth.

She has spent enough time around one dangerous man who wanted her afraid.

I fold the bandana into a plastic laundry bag from the closet and hand it to Nevermore. “Evidence.”

Sweet laughs under her breath.

I look at her. “What?”

“Evidence. Like there’s a court where this gets fixed.”

Nevermore’s face hardens, but I answer first.

“Not all justice wears a badge.”

Her eyes come to mine, and something in them reminds me exactly who I am standing here as. Not safe. Not civilized. The difference is that tonight all that ugly is pointed away from her.

“That supposed to comfort me?” she asks.

“No. It’s supposed to be true.”

She looks away.

I do not touch her, even though every part of me wants to put a hand on the back of her neck and make the shaking stop. Touch has to be asked for. I am learning that with her, and I do not like lessons, but I like the alternative less.

“Tell me what you need.”

Sweet looks back at me, surprised.

I don’t blame her.