She’d struck a much bigger blow last night, putting a stop to Wally’s revolving door of bad. She grinned.

When a car rumbled down a nearby side street, her grin faded. Waaaay too hot. She could feel the dragon’s breath.

“Come stay with us, Josephine. Just try it out,” MizB said. “There are only so many times I can watch you leave here before I do something.”

Jo went motionless. She gave the woman the same scary stare she’d given that dickwad foster dad, the look that got him to yank his hand away and back off. “You report us, and I’ll bust Thaddie out just like I always do, and I’ll take him so far away you’ll never see him again. We clear?” You’re already gonna do that, Jo.

How would MizB react? It’d probably break her. Which Jo didn’t care about. At all. Jo’s job was looking out for number one.

“I have no doubt. That’s why I stop my fingers from dialing Child Protective Services every day.”

“I am his mom,” Jo said, even as Thaddie shoveled the woman’s grub into his mouth.

MizB softly said, “A mother would want better for her son.”

She sounded reasonable, but here was the thing: Jo was feral. There’d be no living under someone else’s roof and following someone else’s rules. Rules didn’t apply to Jo and never had.

There’d be no sharing Thaddie with a woman who desperately wanted to be his mother.

He’s mine, not hers. He was Jo’s number one.

But a tiny part of her said, Thaddie’s not feral. Not yet. Sometimes Jo had dreams about him with the Braydens. The three of them as a family.

Those dreams weirded her out, because she wasn’t in them.

Done with this, Jo snagged a chicken leg and stood. “I gotta blaze. Be back in an hour or so.” She swooped in to kiss Thaddie. “Mwah!” Then she whispered to him, “Bitch tries anything, you tit-punch her.”

He nodded happily. Smacking cornbread, he said, “Bye-bye, JoJo.”

MizB walked her to the door. “Out to pick pockets again?”

“Yeah, you want me to grab you anything while I’m out?”

But the woman grew really serious. “How can you touch a child so innocent and good when your hands aren’t clean?”

Jo shoved the chicken leg in her mouth, raising both hands. Around the drumstick, she said, “Clean as they’ll ever be.”

“That’s not true, Josephine. I think you’ve forgotten you’re just a little girl.”

“Little girl? I’ve been a lot of things, but that ain’t one of them. . . .”

Out on the street, Jo mimicked, “How can you touch him? Meh meh MEH meh meh.” She snatched a bite of chicken, hating how good it was.

She turned the corner. Stopped in her tracks and swallowed hard. The chicken fell from her limp fingers.

A gun barrel was pointed at her face.

Wally.

Behind him stood his trio of asshole friends. They all looked spaced-out, eyes crazy bloodshot.

Wally’s long, stringy hair had been singed, and sweat poured down his blistered face. “People been saying the creepy pale girl’s always fucking with me.” His words were slurred, and the gun shook in his bandaged hand. “People been saying she was sneaking around my place last night. So I’m gonna ask the creepy pale girl once: why’d my goddamned house catch on fire last night—with us in it?”

Oh. Shit. “You left your teakettle on again?”

“Wrong answer, bitch.” He squeezed the trigger, and all the world went dark.

Wally had shot Jo in the face! So how had she lived? And where was she? Damn, her scalp was itching like crazy. She scratched—

A crumpled piece of metal was sprouting . . . sprouting from her forehead! She stifled a cry as she scraped it out. Immediately her vision cleared.

She pinched the thing between her fingers. Recognition. A spent bullet had just come out of her skull!

She found others caught in her hair. Shed from her head too? She collected them with the two that had been in her mouth. In her cupped palms she held six slugs.

But I’m alive. I’m . . . bulletproof?

I AM a superhero. (Secretly she’d always known it!)

She pocketed the slugs, narrowing her eyes. It was payback time. She hopped down from the table, or tried to. She floated to her feet—feet that weren’t touching the ground.

She gaped down at her body. She was wearing her same clothes, but her faint outline flickered. She glanced at the table. Atop it, a zipped-up body bag lay flat. This was a morgue? Other bodies in bags were lined up on tables, waiting for whatever happened in fucking morgues.

Realization sank in.

I was in that empty bag.

Because I died.

I’m a . . . ghost.

Her gaze darted. How the hell was she going to care for Thaddie? Surely MizB had taken him home after the shooting.

Jo’s shooting.

Wally and his crew killed me! Those pricks! She squeezed her fists and screamed. The lights above shattered, glass raining down.

She’d haunt Wally until he went insane, would drive them all crazy! She needed to hurt them—NOW!

Suddenly she felt herself moving, as if she were being sucked into the air. She blinked; her surroundings had disappeared, replaced with the hood. She was standing in front of Wally’s still smoking house.

She’d . . . teleported here? Of course! Because she was supposed to get revenge. That’s what ghosts did. Once she’d finished with that, she’d go snag Thaddie; they’d find a spooky deserted mansion somewhere. Live happily ever after and all that shit.