Chapter Three Saylor
Chapter Three
Saylor
The applause dies down as I step off the stage, the spotlights dimming behind me. Eddie, our piano player, is already loosening
his tie when I walk over.
“Not bad for a Thursday night,” he says, flexing his fingers. “Though you kept scanning the crowd during that last song.”
“Was it that obvious?” I lean against the piano, catching my breath.
“Only to someone who’s been watching you perform for two years.” Eddie starts gathering his sheet music. “Your mysterious
friend from last night show up again?”
I glance around the cabaret. The crowd is thinning but there are still plenty of people nursing drinks at their tables. “He
was here. Then he wasn’t.”
“Ah. The old disappearing act.” Eddie pauses in his packing. “That why you look like someone stole your favorite toy?”
“I don’t look like anything.”
“Right. And I don’t have arthritis in my left hand.” He grins. “So what happened? Guy seemed pretty into you last night.”
“Nothing happened. That’s the problem.” I run a hand through my hair. “He just . . . vanished. Right after my set.”
“Maybe he had somewhere to be.”
“Or maybe I’m reading too much into things.” I lower my voice as a couple walks past our corner. “Eddie, you ever get the
feeling someone’s watching you? Like, really watching you?”
His expression shifts, becoming more serious. “All the time in this business. Why?”
“For the past week, I’ve felt like I’m being studied. Not the usual drunk patron bullshit—something different.”
“Then keep your eyes open. And maybe consider that hooking up with dark strangers in tailored suits isn’t the smartest move
when you’re already feeling paranoid.”
“Oh, so now you’re my life coach?” I cross my arms. “What’s next, Eddie? Going to tell me to eat my vegetables and get eight hours of sleep?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Just saying, kid. Timing seems a little convenient, doesn’t it?”
“What, so I should swear off men because I’m feeling jumpy? That’s a fast track to becoming a crazy cat lady.”
Eddie laughs as he finishes packing up. “Fair point. Just . . . be careful, all right?”
“Always am.” I push off from the piano. “See you tomorrow night.”
But as I watch Eddie head for the exit, that crawling sensation between my shoulder blades gets stronger. Time to get out
of here.
The ride to my apartment is silent except for the low hum of the engine and the city noise filtering through the windows.
I lean forward in the backseat of the cab, watching the driver’s mirrors. There’s a black sedan three cars back that’s been
behind us since we left the club. Could be nothing. Could be everything.
The driver doesn’t seem to notice my paranoia, or maybe he’s just used to neurotic passengers having breakdowns in his backseat.
When we pull up to my building, I notice another car parked across the street. A man sits behind the wheel, and when our looks
collide in his side mirror, he looks away too quickly.
Something tightens in my chest. This isn’t paranoia anymore. This is confirmation.
I fumble with my keys at the front door, my hands shaking. Was this always going to happen? Had I been living on borrowed
time, thinking I could stay under the radar forever? Maybe I should have run the first time I felt those eyes on me. Maybe
I got too comfortable, too careless. Maybe this was always how it would end.
The lock that’s been broken for months suddenly seems less like a minor inconvenience and more like a death sentence.
What kind of idiot lets something like that slide when she’s running from the people who killed her father?
I should have been on the apartment manager’s ass about it from day one.
Should have fixed it myself. Should have moved to a building with better security.
Fuck, I got sloppy. Complacent. Started thinking like Saylor Mitchell instead of Sara Mitchell—the girl who knew that broken locks could get you killed.
Maybe I should call the police. But what would I say? That I’m scared? That someone might be following me? Nothing’s actually
happened. I sound like some paranoid woman afraid of the dark. There’s nothing to report. I’m just in my head, spiraling.
Calm down. Get a grip. This isn’t the first time I’ve been scared shitless and nothing happened.
I climb the three flights to my apartment, listening for footsteps behind me. The hallway seems longer than usual, darker.
Every shadow could hide a threat, every creak of the old building could mask the sound of someone following me. When I reach
my door, I freeze.
It’s slightly ajar.
I always lock my door. Always. Even when I’m just running downstairs to check the mail.
My heart tries to break free from my ribs as I push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is empty.
Not just empty of people—empty of everything. My furniture, my clothes, my books, even the coffee mug I left in the sink this
morning. All of it, gone.
All except for a large steamer chest sitting in the middle of the room like some Victorian relic. Dark wood, brass fittings,
and big enough to hide a body.
“What the fuck?” The words tear out of my throat, raw and disbelieving.
I spin in a circle, taking in the bare walls where my photographs used to hang, the empty spots where my bookshelf and couch
should be. Even the curtains are gone. It’s like someone erased my entire existence in the span of a few hours.
“This is insane,” I say to the empty room, my words echoing off the bare walls. “This is completely fucking insane.”
But even as I say it, a cold certainty settles in my stomach. This isn’t random. This is them. The Crows. The ones who killed
my father. The ones I’ve been running from for five years.
They found me.
And they’re going to make me completely disappear. Poof. Gone.
I walk over to the steamer chest, my footsteps echoing in the empty space. It’s old-fashioned and ominous, like something
you’d find in a haunted attic. The lid is unlocked, and when I flip it open, it’s completely empty except for a faint smell
of cedar and mothballs.
What the hell is this thing even for?
“We’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”
The voice comes from behind me, low and smooth with just a hint of an accent I can’t quite place. I spin around to find three
men standing in my doorway like Death’s own welcoming committee. The one in the middle is tall and lean with graying hair
and cold eyes that remind me of winter mornings. The other two flank him like bookends—one built like a truck, the other wiry
and sharp-faced like a snake.
“Sara Mitchell,” the middle one says, and hearing my real name spoken aloud after all these years makes my blood freeze. “Or
do you prefer Saylor Mitchell these days?”
These are them. I know it with the same bone-deep certainty that told me something was wrong tonight. The Crows. The bastards
who destroyed my life.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, but my voice comes out smaller than I intended.
The middle one smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that would give children nightmares. “Of course you don’t. You’ve done such
a good job disappearing. Five years is a long time to stay hidden. But you can’t sing in public and expect to remain invisible
forever.”
“The White Note,” the truck-sized one rumbles. “Beautiful voice. Just like Peter said.”
My father’s name on this monster’s lips makes something snap inside me. The fear is still there, cold and sharp, but now it’s
wrapped in fury. “Don’t you dare talk about him.”
“Peter Mitchell was a good man,” the middle one continues, stepping farther into my apartment like he owns it. “Shame he got
mixed up in business that wasn’t his concern. But then, you know all about that, don’t you? After all, you were there.”
The memory slams into me—Dad’s blood, warm and sticky on my face. The wet sound of his throat opening. His eyes finding mine through the crack in the closet door, love and terror warring in his gaze.
“You killed him,” I whisper.
“We did our job,” the snake-faced one says with a shrug. “Nothing personal.”
Nothing personal. They cut my father’s throat and it was nothing personal.
The rage burns brighter now, hot enough to push back the fear. I take a step toward them, my hands clenching into fists. “You
want to finish what you started? Come on then. I’m not hiding in a closet anymore.”
The middle one laughs, actually laughs. “Oh, you have more fire than your father ever had. Good. That’ll make this more interesting.”
He nods to his companions. “The trunk.”
“Fuck you,” I spit. “And fuck your trunk.”
It happens fast. The big one lunges for me while the snake-faced one circles around. I dodge left, my heels skittering on
the hardwood, but there’s nothing to grab, nothing to defend myself with in the empty space. I aim a kick at Truck’s knee,
but he catches my leg.
“Let go of me, you knuckle-dragging mouth-breather!” I twist in his grip and manage to rake my nails across his face, leaving
four bloody furrows down his cheek.
He roars and backhands me hard enough to make my ears ring. “Crazy bitch!”
“That’s the best you got?” I laugh, tasting blood. “No wonder it took you five years to find me.”
The snake-faced one circles closer, grinning. “She’s got a mouth on her. Just like daddy did before we shut him up.”
Pure fury floods through me, white-hot and blinding. If I ever get the chance—when I get the chance—I’m going to kill these
fuckers slowly. I’m going to make them beg. I’m going to make them understand exactly what they took from me.
“You want to know what Peter’s last words really were?” the middle one asks, pulling out a syringe. “He said ‘please don’t
hurt my little girl.’ Pathetic, really.”
I launch myself at him, all claws and fury. “You lying sack of—”
The big one grabs me from behind, trying to wrestle me toward the trunk. I sink my teeth into his forearm, biting down hard enough to taste blood.
“Fuck!” He jerks back. “She bit me! Like a rabid badger!”
“Get her in the damn trunk!” the middle one snaps.
I thrash wildly in Truck’s grip. “I’m going to shove that syringe so far up your ass you’ll be sneezing chemicals for a week!”
But even as I fight, the needle slides into my neck. The middle one’s cold smile is the last thing I see clearly.
“Nothing personal,” he says, echoing his partner’s words.
The world starts to blur at the edges. My legs feel like they’re made of rubber, and I stumble, trying to keep my balance.
“No,” I slur, trying to fight the drug coursing through my system. “No, you assholes, I’m not . . . I won’t . . .”
But I’m already falling, my vision tunneling down to a pinprick of light. The last thing I see before the darkness takes me
is the steamer chest, its mouth open like a hungry beast.
The last thing I think is that I should have run the moment I felt him watching.
I should have listened to the fear.