“I don’t,” I say, honesty finally hitting home. “Just want to know who I owe my thanks.”
“You can thank me.”
“Thank you.”
The woman in front of me can make a death happen with a phone call and drink coffee afterward. This is my new world. Just different bars on different windows if I’m not careful.
“I don’t want to owe you,” I whisper.
Lottie’s expression softens.
Then the softness shifts.
Not away.
Under.
A blade under a quilt.
“You should stick around then.”
My spine prickles. “What does that mean?”
“It means Kentucky is where your brother is. Where Derby is. Where the Kings can watch the roads and the Queens know where to find you.”
A chill moves over my skin. “That sounds like a threat.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
She studies me. “Good. Means your ears work.”
My heart starts beating harder.
“Lottie.”
“You got that crown now, whether you understand it or not. Hot Mama don’t hand those out because she likes symmetrical head art.”
I touch the tender skin behind my ear.
The tiny tattoo still aches.
“She said it wasn’t property.”
“It isn’t.”
“She said I owed nothing for surviving.”
“You don’t.”
“But?”
Lottie’s eyes hold mine. “But women who get roads opened for them should remember who moved the trees.”
There it is.
Not a demand. Not yet. A reminder. A hook with velvet wrapped around it.