Chapter Twenty-Six Saylor
Chapter Twenty-Six
Saylor
Waking up alone in Blue’s bed is like the morning after the best concert of your life. Everything’s quiet, but your ears are
still ringing. The pillow still smells like whatever expensive soap he uses, mixed with something that’s just him. My body
aches in interesting places, a roadmap of last night’s activities. The faint red marks around my wrists have faded, but I
can still remember the weight of those handcuffs.
A piece of paper rests on the pillow beside me, written in that precise handwriting that screams expensive education.
Had to handle something. Back soon. Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone. - B
The note should be reassuring. Instead, it makes me realize how enormous and empty this house is when it’s just me rattling
around in it. Every footstep echoes off the vaulted ceilings, turning my morning routine into a one-woman percussion section.
I slip back to my room wearing one of Blue’s shirts—a white button-down that hangs to my thighs. The fabric is stupidly soft,
which explains why rich people always look so pleased with themselves.
Getting dressed means choosing armor for a battle I haven’t figured out how to fight yet. I pick a vintage-inspired dress
in deep emerald because green makes me feel powerful. My hair goes up in a simple chignon today—something sleek and controlled—and
my lipstick is dark red like the doors of Grimlock.
If I’m going to plan my first successful murder, I should look the part. Fake it until you make it, right?
Wren has breakfast waiting in the smaller dining room. And by smaller, I mean it seats only twelve people instead of twenty.
Even Blue’s idea of cozy could house a small government.
“Just coffee and toast,” I tell her, settling into one of the antique chairs.
“You need more than that. Can’t plot revenge on an empty stomach.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Plot revenge?”
“Whatever you want to call what you and Blue are up to.” Wren sets down toast that’s golden and perfect. “Point is, you need
fuel.”
“Speaking of Blue, where is he exactly?” I ask, trying to sound casual while spreading what’s clearly butter that comes from
cows with trust funds. “His note was pretty vague about this ‘something’ he had to handle.”
Wren’s energy changes slightly, a careful neutral that means she knows more than she’s saying. “Blue has a restless soul.
Keeps himself busy.” She refills my coffee cup. “He and Hans will be gone most of the day, I expect.”
The finality in her tone makes it clear this topic is closed. I focus on my breakfast instead, but the toast—thick artisan
bread that tastes magical—might as well be sawdust. I can barely manage half a slice. Eating alone in this dining room makes
me understand why Blue insisted we always eat together. The silence isn’t peaceful; it’s oppressive. The house is holding
its breath, waiting for something interesting to happen.
Which is exactly what’s going to get me in trouble again.
My brain keeps drifting back to the third floor. Those locked doors with their fancy keyholes, all those skeleton keys hanging
in the hallway. Blue’s “punishment” last night was definitely a distraction, but it didn’t exactly kill my curiosity about
what he’s hiding up there.
And that kind of thinking is how I will end up handcuffed to his bed again, except next time he might not be in such a generous
mood.
But more than that, I keep thinking about him and Hans out there somewhere, doing whatever it is Blue does when his restless
soul needs tending. The helplessness claws at my chest, making me want to go exploring for answers, for proof that the stories
about seven wives are more than small-town gossip.
“Wren,” I call, pushing away my barely touched breakfast. “I think I need to get out of this house before I do something stupid.”
She appears in the doorway instantly. “Something stupid, how?”
“Either trying to pick locks I have no business picking, or figuring out how to hot-wire that fancy car in the garage and
going after Blue myself.”
“Ah.” Wren nods sagely. “Neither of those options would end well for anyone involved.”
“Exactly.” I stand up, smoothing my skirt. “Any chance I could get a ride into town? I promise not to get kidnapped, murdered,
or otherwise ruin Blue’s day.”
Wren considers this while wiping her hands on her apron. With Blue and Hans gone, her protective duties have shifted. “I suppose
I could use some things from town. And someone should check on Elliott. That man forgets to eat when he’s experimenting with
new recipes.”
“Perfect,” I say, already standing. “Give me five minutes to grab my purse.”
I rush upstairs, trading my house slippers for black Mary Janes and checking my reflection one more time. The emerald dress
still hugs my curves perfectly, the color making my skin look luminous instead of tired. I add the one piece of jewelry that
matters—Dad’s vintage compass necklace, its brass face worn smooth from decades of his thumb tracing over it. He gave it to
me for my eighteenth birthday, saying every Mitchell needed to know how to find their way home. The weight of it against my
chest is both comforting and heartbreaking, a reminder that I’m still trying to figure out where home is. At least my red
lipstick is still perfect, which feels appropriate for whatever I’m about to get myself into.
Wren is waiting by the front door when I return, keys already in hand and a small shopping list tucked into her coat pocket.
Soon I’m riding shotgun in Wren’s old but perfect Buick, watching Grimlock’s twisted streets unfold. The morning fog clings
to every surface like secrets made visible, transforming familiar buildings into something from a half-remembered dream. Cobblestones
disappear and reappear through the mist, shop windows glow like lanterns floating in gray silk, and the whole town breathes
with the rhythm of something alive and bygone. It’s a beauty that makes you understand why people write ghost stories.
“Wren,” I say as we navigate an alley that definitely wasn’t designed for cars, “hypothetically speaking, if someone wanted to kill people but couldn’t handle blood, what would you suggest?”
Wren doesn’t even blink. “Hypothetically?”
“Completely hypothetically.”
“Well, that’s a bit of a pickle, isn’t it? Wanting to kill people but squeamish about blood.” Wren navigates another impossible
turn. “It’s a bit like wanting to bake bread but being afraid of flour.”
“I’m not squeamish. I just . . . throw up when things get stabby.”
“That’s called being squeamish.” Wren’s tone is matter-of-fact. “Most people in the killing business just power through the
mess. But there are alternatives.”
“Such as?”
“Poison, obviously. Much cleaner than axes. More elegant too.” She takes a corner that shouldn’t be physically possible. “Although
it takes patience. Can’t just stab and run.”
“I think I could manage patience.” I watch a woman tending a garden where every flower is purple and not the usual black I’ve
seen before. “Where would someone hypothetically get poison? Asking for a friend.”
“Your friend has interesting hobbies.” Wren’s mouth twitches. “Toil & Trouble. Duffy stocks everything you need, no questions
asked. She and Blue have an understanding.”
An understanding. Because apparently when you’re in the murder business, there’s a whole network of suppliers.
“Could you drop me there?”
“Of course. Just promise me you’ll be smart about whatever you’re planning.”
“Define smart.”
“Don’t get caught. Don’t make messes for other people to clean up. And for god’s sake, don’t poison anyone at Blue’s dinner
parties. The man has enough social problems.”
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?”