Page 199 of Romancing in Rot

His father.

The crash.

My parents.

For years, I carried a faceless monster in my head. A drunk driver. A coward who left my mother and father broken on the road and drove away. I hated him without knowing his name.

Now I know.

And Russ knew.

I can’t kill his father, but I took his son out of this world. It is not enough. It will never be enough. But some dark, wounded part of me goes quiet anyway.

A small justice.

I press my split knuckles against my thigh until pain sparks up my arm.

Not now.

I can break later.

Lyla yells from above. “New deal.”

A low murmur moves through the crowd.

Bryant’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

Lyla’s voice hardens. “We leave with our people and half your fuel.”

Bryant stares at her for one long second.

Then he laughs.

Not the amused performance from before. This laugh is thinner. Meaner. Cracked at the edges. “That wasn’t the original deal.”

His attention cuts back to me.

I shrug, then sign as Jacob translates. “ ‘The original deal can rot beside Russ.’ ”

Bryant takes one step forward, and every gun on our side adjusts. Lyla’s rifle centers on his chest. Joanie angles her pistol toward his head. Carlos shifts along the railing, covering a knot of cannibals edging too close to the stairs. Jacob’s shotgun sweeps over three men near the fountain. Clair keeps Poppy tucked behind her, pistol lifted in one steady hand.

Bryant notices all of it.

His jaw tightens. “You don’t get to make demands in my house.”

Lyla gives a small, breathless laugh from above. “I think the bombs we placed around your house say otherwise.”

Bryant looks up.

Carlos steps closer to the railing beside Joanie and lifts one hand.

The walkie.

“You see,” Lyla says, resting her rifle against her shoulder like she’s giving a classroom demonstration instead of threatening a cannibal kingdom, “we found your little store of fuel.”

The word ripples through the court.

Fuel.