"What's your problem?" "You," he says, throwing his bag down. "Always you." "Hello, Baz. Welcome back." He looks away from me. "Where's your necklace?" His voice is low. "My what?" I can't see his whole face, but it looks like his jaw is working. "Your cross." My hand flies to my throat and then to the cuts on my chin. My cross. I took it off weeks ago.