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)
“It means you’re in love with her, and you’re acting like her personal violence tutor instead of telling her how you feel.” Jay leans forward. “Blue, she stabbed someone at your dinner party. That’s not normal girlfriend behavior.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Exactly my point. What is she? Your student? Your protégé? Your revenge partner?” Jay takes on that patient tone again. “Or is she the woman you’re in love with who happens to want to learn how to kill people?”
I don’t have an answer for that, which apparently is answer enough.
“So what do I do?”
“Tell her you love her. Stop hiding behind murder lessons and start having actual conversations about what you both want.” Jay picks up his stress ball, squeezing it thoughtfully. “And maybe stop acting like a serial killer with a teaching certificate.”
“Serial killer with a teaching certificate,” I repeat. “That’s going on my business cards.”
“I’m being serious, Blue.”
“So am I. It has a nice ring to it.”
Jay hurls his stress ball at the wall with more force than usual. “You’re impossible.”
“But I’m your favorite impossible patient.”
“You’re my only patient who brings dinner guests in body bags, so the bar is pretty low.”
My phone buzzes with a text before I can respond. Wren’s name appears on the screen, and I swipe to read her message.
Had to come to town for supplies. Need to head back. Can you give Saylor a ride home? She’s at Toil & Trouble.
The woman has a restless soul and can’t stay put, I think, already standing.
“Problem?” Jay asks.
“Wren needs me to pick up Saylor.” I pocket my phone. “She’s at Toil & Trouble.”
“Blue?” Jay calls as I reach the door. “When you see her, try using words as your love language instead of murder.”
“Right,” I say, already heading for the door.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Blue
The sound hits me before I even open the door—genuine laughter, bright and unguarded. I pause with my hand on the handle of Toil & Trouble, caught off guard by how foreign the sound seems in Duffy’s usually quiet establishment.
When I push through the door, I find Saylor doubled over at the bar, tears streaming down her face from laughing so hard. Duffy’s leaning against the back counter, grinning with the kind of satisfaction that comes from landing a particularly good story. They look like old friends sharing secrets, comfortable in a way that makes something warm settle in my chest.
I can’t remember the last time I saw Duffy truly relaxed with another person. She’s friendly enough with customers, professional with business associates, but this? This is different. Saylor’s got her feet tucked up on the barstool rungs, completely at ease, and Duffy’s actually remaining still instead of working—something I’ve seen maybe twice in all the years I’ve known her.
“Blue!” Saylor looks up, still catching her breath, and the sight of her face flushed with happiness does something dangerous to my composure. Her hair’s escaping from whatever she’d tried to do with it this morning, and there’s a lightness to her expression that I’ve never seen before. “Duffy was just telling me about Dame Gothel’s love letters.”
“She’s been leaving them for the mailman,” Duffy explains, barely containing her own laughter. “Romantic poetry about his ‘strong hands’ and ‘noble dedication to correspondence.’ Problem is, her handwriting looks like a serial killer’s manifesto and he can’t read a single word. The poor man is convinced she’s sending him death threats.”
This sets Saylor off again, and I can’t help but smile at the sound.
I settle onto a stool, watching them with fascination. Grimlock doesn’t welcome outsiders easily. We’re a town full of people who’ve learned to be suspicious, who’ve all got reasons to prefer our privacy. Most newcomers sense the undercurrent of wariness and either leave quickly or spend months trying to prove they belong.
But Saylor’s different. Maybe it’s because she stabbed a man at my dinner party. Maybe it’s because she looks at our darker edges and sees them as features rather than flaws. Or maybe it’s simply that she understands what it means to carry secrets—and more importantly, what it means to keep them.
Whatever the reason, she’s already carved out a place here. I can see it in how Duffy’s shoulders have dropped their usual defensive tension, in the way they’re sitting together like conspirators planning something delightfully wicked.
I check my pocket watch. Nearly two o’clock. “Ready to head back?”
Saylor nods, sliding off her stool. “Thank you for the drinks, Duffy. And the conversation.”
“Anytime.” Duffy’s smile is warm but careful now. “Both of you are always welcome.”
We leave money on the bar and step back into Grimlock’s perpetual mist. The cobblestones are slick under our feet as we walk toward where Hans waits with the car, but something makes me pause at the entrance to the town square.
The clock tower rises from Grimlock’s center like a Gothic prayer made stone. Its spire disappears into low clouds, and the massive clock face showing eternal midnight catches what little light filters through the fog.