The truck compacts with a mechanical roar. I stand on the icy curb in yesterday’s boots, staring at the place where the antique disappeared. It’s matchsticks now, being swallowed up by the truck’s guts.
Kane comes around the SUV.
“That belonged to me!” I cry.
“Yes, it did—in the past tense. But you’re better off without it. It’s been defiled.”
“So you threw it away?”
“You deserve better.”
I whirl on him. “That is not your decision!”
He’s tall, a black-haired demon slouching against the side of the SUV, surrounded by fresh white snow. “It was the place where they disrespected you,” he says in a violent rumble. “I saw it in the recording.”
The cold catches in my lungs.
He glances past me at the garbage truck. “So did everyone in your mother’s living room. Now, strangers have seen it
