“Something funny, Morgan?” he said sourly.

I dropped my head, watching him from around my drooping bangs. “Not really. You reminded me of my dad—for a minute there.”

Quen adopted a look both disbelieving and questioning. Shaking my head, I grabbed my shoulder bag from the table and went to sit at the vanity against the screen. “See, we had this big seventh-grade dance, and I had a strapless dress,” I said as I brought out my makeup. “My dad wouldn’t let my date pin the flower on, so he did it himself.” My focus blurred, and I crossed my legs. “He missed my prom.”

Quen remained standing. I couldn’t help but notice he had put himself where he could see me and the door both. “Your father was a good man. He’d be proud of you tonight.”

Quick and painful, my breath caught. Slowly I let it out, my hands resuming their primping. I really wasn’t surprised Quen had known him—they were the same age—but it hurt nonetheless. “You knew him?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.

The look he gave me through the mirror was unreadable. “He died well.”

Died well? God, what was it with these people?

Angry, I turned in my seat to see him directly. “He died in a cruddy little hospital room with dirt in the corners,” I said tightly. “He was supposed to stay alive, damn it.” My voice was even, but I knew it wouldn’t stay that way. “He was supposed to be there when I got my first job, then lost it three days later after I slugged the boss’s son when he tried to feel me up. He was supposed to be there when I graduated from high school and then college. He was supposed to be there to scare my dates into behaving so I wouldn’t have to find my own way home from wherever the prick dumped me when he found I’d fight back. But he wasn’t, was he? No. He died doing something with Trent’s father, and no one has the balls to tell me what great thing it was that was worth screwing up my life for.”

My heart pounded, and I stared at Quen’s quiet, pox-scarred face. “You’ve had to be your own keeper for a long time,” he said.

“Yeah.” Lips pressed tight, I turned back to the mirror, my foot bobbing up and down.

“What doesn’t kill you—”

“Hurts.” I watched his reflection. “It hurts. It hurts a lot.” My black eye throbbed under my higher blood pressure, and I reached to touch it. “I’m strong enough,” I said bitterly. “I don’t want to be any stronger. Piscary is a bastard, and if he gets out of prison, he’s going to die twice.” I thought of Skimmer, hoping she was as bad a lawyer as she was good a friend to Ivy.

Quen’s feet shifted, but he didn’t move. “Piscary?”

The question in his voice brought my gaze up. “He said he killed my dad. Did he lie to me?” Need to know. Did I finally “need to know” according to Quen?