Chapter Thirteen Blue #2
“Blue, I’ve been treating killers for twenty years. A woman seeking justice for her father’s murder? That’s practically therapeutic
compared to most of my clientele.” Jay picks up his pen. “Besides, it keeps you from relapsing, which was my primary concern
anyway.”
“So you’re . . . okay with this?”
“I’m okay with you finding a way to help her that doesn’t involve you personally dismembering people.” Jay makes a note. “Though
I do think we should discuss healthy boundaries in mentor-mentee relationships that involve homicide instruction.”
Jay starts to sit down, then immediately pops back up to rearrange three different pens on his desk. He picks up a paperweight,
sets it down in a new spot, then moves it back. Finally, he settles into his chair, absently squeezing his stress ball while
focusing on me again.
My phone buzzes with a text. I grab it like it’s a lifeline, expecting an update from Hans.
Instead, it’s a photo of Saylor standing outside Toil & Trouble—Grimlock’s main watering hole. Hans’s awkward attempt at surveillance
photography has cut off half her body. She’s changed out of the dress from this morning into something that’s purely her—a
fitted black dress with a cherry print, paired with a cropped leather jacket that’s seen better days but fits her like armor.
Her dark hair is styled in victory rolls with strategic pieces framing her face, and even from Hans’s terrible angle I can
see the red lipstick that makes her mouth look like sin itself. She’s got one hand on her hip, studying the bar’s entrance
like she’s deciding whether the establishment is worthy of her presence.
She looks like trouble in the best possible way. Like herself.
The relief is so intense I have to grip the chair to stay upright.
“Good news?” Jay asks, clearly reading my body language.
“She’s fine. Hans sent a photo.” I show him the screen. “She’s outside Toil & Trouble.”
“Toil & Trouble? The Dunsin sisters’ place?” Jay fidgets with his glasses. “Huh.”
“What do you mean, ‘huh’?”
“Nothing. Just . . . the sisters are . . . protective of their space. They don’t exactly roll out the welcome mat for newcomers.” Jay’s expression shifts to something more concerned. “Especially people they haven’t had a chance to vet properly.”
The image of the Dunsin sisters deciding Saylor is a threat, of them viewing her as someone who doesn’t belong in their sanctuary,
of them choosing poison over cocktails—fuck no. No fucking way.
“I need to go,” I say, already standing.
“Blue, wait.” His voice has lost its teasing edge. “But they wouldn’t actually hurt her, right? I mean, they’d just . . .
make her unwelcome?”
“The sisters aren’t murder sober, Jay. They are the opposite when they feel justified. And they’re wary of anyone they don’t
recognize. Until they get to know Saylor, until they understand she belongs here, she’s just another potential threat.”
Jay nods slowly, understanding. “Which is why you’re worried.”
“Exactly. But until then, she’s a stranger in a town full of people who’ve learned not to trust strangers.”
“Sit down,” Jay says firmly. “We’re going to talk through this like rational adults instead of letting your inner caveman
take over.”
“I don’t have time for—”
“Make time. Because the alternative is you storming into Toil & Trouble, scaring Saylor, confirming every fear she has about
you, and proving that bringing her to Grimlock was the worst decision you’ve ever made.” Jay points to the chair. “Sit.”
I sit, but every nerve ending in my body is coiled to spring into action.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Jay says, his voice taking on the authoritative tone that means he’s shifted into full therapist
mode. “You’re going to stay here for the rest of our session. You’re going to work through these feelings like a mature adult.
And then you’re going to go home and wait for Saylor to return on her own terms.”
“And if she doesn’t return?”
“Then you’ll deal with that when it happens. But Blue?” Jay leans forward, his energy shifting to serious. “If you want any
chance of this working—whatever ‘this’ turns out to be—you need to prove you trust her judgment. Starting right now.”
My phone buzzes again. Another photo from Hans—this one showing Saylor sitting at the bar, laughing at something Duffy is saying as she slides one of her foo-foo crafted cocktails across the polished wood toward her.
The warm lighting of Toil & Trouble makes her skin glow, and even through Hans’s terrible photography skills, I can see the genuine smile on her face.
She looks relaxed for the first time since I’ve known her. Happy.
Something cold puts down roots in my chest, but it’s not about Duffy this time. It’s instinct. The same sixth sense that’s
kept me alive through fifteen years of dancing with death.
I go back and zoom in on the first photo Hans sent, the one of her standing outside the bar. My blood turns to ice.
There, in the background behind a lamppost decorated with iron roses, partially obscured by shadow but unmistakably familiar,
stands a figure I hoped never to see again. Tall and lean with silver hair slicked back, wearing a charcoal coat that screams
money and power. Even in Hans’s grainy surveillance photo, I can make out the calculating smile that’s gotten him into more
high-society events than any criminal has a right to attend.
Samuel “Sly” Crow. The Crow’s intelligence gatherer. Their eyes and ears, their master manipulator who can charm state secrets
out of senators’ wives and assassination targets out of their own bodyguards.
If Sly is in Grimlock, it means the Crow know exactly where Saylor is.
I stand up so fast the chair tips backward, crashing into Jay’s filing cabinet.
“Blue, what—”
“It’s decided.” I’m already moving toward the door, my hand instinctively reaching for my phone to call Hans. “I need to get
her out of there. Now.”
The axe is calling, and I’m going to try my damnedest to ignore it.