Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
“Blue—”
“I have some business to handle,” I say, already turning away. “Wren will see to whatever you need.”
“No.” The word stops me mid-step. When I turn back, Saylor has moved fully inside, closing the door behind her with deliberate force. “I said we need to talk, and I meant it.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Bullshit.” Her voice cuts through the entrance hall. “You’ve been avoiding me for two days. Two days of showing up to meals and eating in silence while I sit there wondering what the hell happened between us.”
I try to remain neutral, but something in her tone makes me want to end this conversation before it starts. “Hans died. That’s what happened.”
“I know you cared about Hans, and his death is devastating.” She steps closer, and I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. “But that doesn’t explain why you’ve shut me out completely. Why you won’t even look at me anymore.”
“I’m looking at you now.”
“No, you’re looking through me. There’s a difference.” Saylor crosses her arms. “Talk to me, Blue. Tell me what’s going on in your head.”
“What’s going on in my head is that good people die when they get too close to me. Hans is proof of that.”
“So what, you’re going to punish me for Hans’s death? Make me feel like I don’t belong here because someone else made a choice to help us?”
The accusation stings because it’s partially true. “This isn’t about punishment.”
“Then what is it about?” She moves closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you’re using Hans’s death as an excuse to push me away.”
“Maybe you should be pushed away.” The words are out before I can stop them, and I watch her face crumple. “Maybe the smart thing would be to get as far from me as possible before you end up like everyone else who gets too close.”
Part of me knows I should be angry about the third floor—about her finding the skulls, violating the one boundary I set. But after watching Hans die, after feeling his blood soak into the earth, her snooping through my most private space seems insignificant. She broke my trust. She saw what I keep locked away. A week ago, that betrayal would have consumed me. Now? Now all I can think about is that she’s at least alive to betray me, and I need to keep it that way—even if it means pushing her away.
“Fine.” She straightens, composing herself. “I have some business to handle too, then.”
“What business?”
“I think I’ll have the driver take me to town. Get a drink at Toil & Trouble.” She watches my face carefully as she says it. “Talk to Duffy. Talk to someone.”
“Good idea,” I manage, although my jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth at the thought of her going anywhere without me. But I can’t lock her in this house, even though part of me wants to. “I have a . . . driver out front with the car you can use.”
“Fine.”
The door closes behind her with deliberate force, and I wait until I hear the car pull away before heading toward my study. What I need is a drink and silence and maybe a few hours to figure out how to keep the rest of the people I care about from ending up dead.
I push open the study door and freeze.
The room that used to be my sanctuary now feels haunted. Dark wood paneling climbs the walls, broken by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with first editions and rare manuscripts. The massive fireplace dominates one wall, its mantelpiece carved with hunting scenes that seem too violent now. Persian rugs in deep burgundy cover the hardwood floors, and brass reading lamps cast pools of warm light over leather furniture chosen for comfort rather than display.
But all I can see is Hans three weeks ago, standing by the window with a cup of coffee, watching the sunrise while he waited for me to finish reviewing security reports. He’d been humming something—some German folk song from his childhood—completely off-key but utterly content. When I’d looked up from my papers, he’d grinned and said, “Beautiful morning, Boss. Good day to be alive, ja?”
Now Hans will never see another sunrise, and this room feels like a tomb.
Dr. Jay Finch sits in my leather chair behind my desk, feet propped up on the mahogany surface, reading my personal correspondence with the casual attention of someone who belongs there.
“Evening, Blue,” he says without looking up from the letter in his hands. “Quite the send-off for Hans. The whole town marching in perfect time? That was something else.”
“What are you doing in my house, Jay?” I close the door and move toward the liquor cabinet, because if I’m going to deal with an uninvited therapist, I’m going to need whiskey. “And in my chair.”