“I feel like I brought it.”
“You brought it where people could finally see it.”
That stops me.
“There’s a difference,” she says.
I laugh once, but there is no humor in it. “That sounds like something Sophie would say.”
“Sophie says things prettier. I say them while holding bleach and a shovel.”
A tiny, broken laugh gets out of me.
Lottie points at me. “Good. You ain’t dead.”
“I feel close.”
“Dramatic.”
“My fake boyfriend is in jail because my real husband sent my son a psychological warfare dinosaur.”
She considers that. “That’s a little dramatic.”
The laugh that comes this time hurts less.
Only a little.
Lottie steps closer and studies me with eyes that have seen more than she will ever say in one sitting. “You done letting men decide where you stand, honey?”
I blink. “What?”
She reaches up, pulls the clip from her hair, and lets it fall around her face. Then she turns her head and gathers the hair at the left side, lifting it away from the skin behind her ear.
A tattoo sits there.
Tiny.
Black.
A crown.
Not cute. Not decorative. Not the kind of little symbol women get after too much wine and a dare. This one looks deliberate. Sharp. Almost hidden, but not ashamed. A mark meant to be shown only when the woman showing it chooses.
A warning.
My mouth goes dry. “What is that?”
Lottie lets her hair fall back down. “A reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That my head belongs upright.”
I stare at her.
She clips her hair back up like she has not just opened a door in the wall. “Vale got too close.”
“I know.”