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)
I’m really starting to love Wren.
Wren drops me off at Toil & Trouble with a promise to pick me up in an hour. The wind chimes on the wraparound porch create their unique melodic chaos as I approach the crimson door.
The familiar scent of lavender mixed with something that smells like a forest floor hits me the moment I step inside. Duffy’s behind the bar, reorganizing her collection of spirit bottles, and when she spots me, her face breaks into a grin.
“Well, well. Look who’s back.” She sets down a bottle she’s holding and reaches for the gin. “Let me guess—lavender gin fizz to start the day right?”
“Please. And make it a double.”
“Starting early today, are we?” Duffy grins as she begins mixing. “Not that I’m judging. I heard about your performance at Blue’s party from half the town. Sorry I missed it—my sisters and I tend to keep to ourselves during social gatherings.”
“Introverts who own a bar?” I raise an eyebrow. “That seems counterintuitive.”
“We serve drinks, we don’t make small talk,” Duffy says with a laugh. “There’s a difference. Besides, most of our regulars prefer it that way.” She pauses, searching for words while muddling lavender. “But from what everyone’s saying, your singing was something else. Where’d you learn to sing like that?”
“My dad, mostly. He had this huge collection of old jazz records—Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone. I grew up listening to them.” I settle onto a barstool, watching her work. The morning light streaming through the stained-glass windows turns everything amber and gold. “Started singing along when I was maybe five, and Dad said I had it. The ear, you know?”
“Natural talent.” Duffy slides the finished drink across the bar. “That’s rare.”
I take a sip and close my eyes for a moment. The gin tastes perfect—floral and complex with just enough edge. “This is incredible. You really know what you’re doing.”
“Just a bartender who pays attention.” Duffy leans against the counter, studying my face. “So what’s your story, Saylor Mitchell? Before Grimlock, before Blue, before everything went sideways?”
“I came to New York when I was eighteen with nothing but a fake ID and a suitcase. Been singing in jazz clubs ever since, trying to make it.” I laugh, but there’s no bitterness in it. “I was convinced I was one good break away from making it. One record deal, one famous musician hearing me sing, one magical moment that would change everything.”
“And instead?”
“Instead I learned that sometimes the universe has different plans.” I touch the compass necklace through my dress. “Dad used to say that life isn’t about getting what you want, it’s about figuring out what you actually need.”
Duffy softens. “What do you think you need now?”
Before I can answer, she reaches across the bar and touches my hand gently. Her fingers are warm, calloused from years of handling bottles and cleaning glasses.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “most people who end up in Grimlock are looking for a place where they can stop pretending to be something they’re not. A place where their darker impulses are understood, not judged.” She studies my face. “You have that look—like you’re tired of hiding who you really are.”
I pull my hand back, surprised by how accurately she’s read me. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s been there.” Duffy’s smile turns knowing. “I like that about you. This town needs more people who are ready to embrace their true nature.”
The compliment settles warm in my chest, but then reality kicks in. Duffy’s being so understanding about all this—about Blue, about people embracing their “true nature.” She makes it sound normal, even healthy.
And that should probably worry me more than it does.
“Duffy,” I say, taking another sip for courage, “what do you actually know about Blue? I mean, besides those wife rumors you mentioned.”
Duffy pauses, her hand stilling on the glass she’s been wiping. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything real. He’s so contradictory—in some ways he’s completely open, tells me exactly what he’s thinking. But then there are these walls, these things he won’t talk about. What did he do before he came to Grimlock?”
Duffy sets down the glass and looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know . . . it’s his story to tell, you know?”
“Come on,” I press. “I’m not asking for state secrets. I just want to understand how a man ends up living alone in a freaking castle. That’s not normal, even by Grimlock standards.”
She laughs despite herself. “Fair point. You want to know how Blue afforded that mansion?” Duffy glances around the empty bar, then leans closer. “Word is he inherited a fortune from some European arms dealer who died under mysterious circumstances. Blue was working for him when it happened.” Duffy wipes down the same spot on the bar twice. “But here’s the thing about Blue . . . He never keeps the money for himself. Half the businesses in Grimlock exist because Blue quietly funded them. The bakery, this place. He bought the building and lets me and my sisters run it rent-free.”