Chapter Thirty-Eight Saylor
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Saylor
The driver won’t stop checking the rearview mirror, his eyes darting between the road and my face every few seconds. I’ll
never get used to this—having drivers, housekeepers, people whose job it is to watch me and worry about my moods.
“Drop me at the town square,” I tell him. “I need to walk.”
He nods without argument—probably relieved to get the angry woman out of his car before she starts throwing things. The moment
we stop, I’m out and moving, my feet finding pavement with the steady rhythm of someone working off fury one step at a time.
Blue thinks he can dismiss me? Shut me out like I’m some fragile thing that can’t handle whatever darkness he’s drowning in?
Well, fuck that. And fuck him for making me feel small in my own life.
The evening air bites at my skin, carrying the salt tang of ocean and damp earth from gardens settling into twilight. Grimlock
in the fading light becomes a different creature. Windows begin to glow against stone walls, and the narrow streets transform
into arteries of shadow and golden light that vibrates with secrets.
I walk without direction, letting my anger guide me through alleys I haven’t explored before. Past a clockmaker’s shop where
gears tick behind dark glass, around a corner where ivy climbs so thick it swallows the building’s original lines. My feet
find their own path while my brain churns through everything Blue said, everything he didn’t say, everything that sits between
us like broken glass.
That’s when I see it.
A burst of color against gray stone, so vivid it stops me mid-step. Someone has been painting a mural on the side wall of
a narrow building. Paint covers the stone in sweeping arcs of crimson and gold, deep purple and forest green, all blending
together in patterns that flow and spiral across the surface.
The artist is still there, a woman who looks maybe a few years older than me with wild black curls that escape from a messy bun secured with what appears to be a paintbrush.
Her clothes tell the story of someone who lives in color—a paint-splattered canvas apron over jeans that have been tie-dyed in shades of teal and amber, work boots so covered in dried paint they’ve become art themselves.
She’s reaching high above her head, pressing her palm against the wall to leave a handprint in brilliant blue, and that’s when I realize there are no brushes other than in her hair anywhere.
Just buckets of paint and hands as tools.
“Don’t stop,” she calls over her shoulder without turning around. “I can feel you watching, but don’t let that stop you from
joining in.”
“I’m sorry?”
She turns then, and I see colors smeared across her cheek like war paint. “The wall. It’s been waiting for someone new.” She
gestures to buckets of paint arranged on the ground, colors so rich they seem to glow. “Maya Delacroix. Town muralist, unofficial
therapy provider, and firm believer that sometimes you need to get your hands dirty to clean your soul. Saylor, right? I met
you at the party.”
I approach slowly, studying the patterns spreading across the stone. They’re not pictures of anything I can name. Just raw
emotion turned into swirls and spirals and bold slashes that make me want to grab some paint myself.
“I don’t know how to paint.”
“Everyone knows how to make marks. The wall doesn’t judge technique—it just wants honesty.” Maya dips her hands in a bucket
of deep orange paint. “What color feels right for whatever you’re carrying?”
Without thinking, I point to a bucket of dark red that seems to glow with its own inner fire. Maya nods approvingly.
“Anger red. Perfect. That color knows what it wants.”
I roll up my sleeves and plunge my hands into the paint. It’s warmer than I expected, thick and smooth between my fingers.
Maya guides me to a blank section of wall, then steps back and lets me find my own way.
I start with just my palm against the stone, leaving a crimson handprint. Then my fingers are dragging across the surface in long lines that feel like screaming without making any noise.
I paint my frustration with Blue’s behavior, my confusion about the skulls upstairs, my grief for Hans, my fury at being treated
like something fragile. Each stroke releases something I’ve been holding too tightly, and soon my hands are flying across
the stone with surprising confidence.
Maya works beside me, adding touches of gold that flow into my angry red. Other people drift into the courtyard—an elderly
man who adds careful dots of white, a teenager who splashes purple with joyful abandon.
No one speaks. We just paint, our separate emotions blending into something larger. The wall grows and changes as more hands
join the work, my red spreading into Maya’s gold, flowing into the man’s precise details, dancing with the teenager’s wild
purple.
When my arms finally grow tired, I step back to see what we’ve created. The wall pulses with life—not a mural in any traditional
sense, but a record of this moment, this evening, this group of people who found each other through color and stone.
“How do you feel?” Maya asks, wiping her hands on a paint-stained rag.
I look at my paint-covered hands and feel something ease in my chest. “Lighter.”
“That’s what the wall does. Takes the heavy stuff and turns it into something everyone can see, something that becomes part
of the town.” Maya steps back to admire our combined work. “Your anger isn’t gone—it’s just not only yours anymore.”
The paint is starting to dry on my skin, but I don’t want to wash it off yet. There’s something satisfying about carrying
this evidence of creation, proof that I can make something beautiful even when I’m furious.
Maya starts gathering empty paint buckets. “Whatever’s eating at you, don’t let it shrink you down. Anger like that”—she gestures
to my bold red strokes spreading across the stone—“that’s meant to take up space.”
I study the wall where my anger has become something others can see and touch. “Thank you. For the paint, for the wall, for . . .” I trail off, not sure how to explain what just happened.
“For letting you be mad without judgment?” Maya grins. “That’s what walls are for. Come back anytime you need to get loud.”
I nod, already stepping back toward the street. The fury that brought me here has burned off, leaving something steadier behind.
Toil & Trouble sits three blocks away, its windows glowing with warm light and the promise of strong drinks and sympathetic
company. I walk toward it with purpose now, my steps finding a different rhythm on the cobblestones—not the angry march I
started with, but the confident stride of a woman who knows exactly what she wants.
The wind chimes on Duffy’s porch sing their metallic song as I approach, and when I push open the door, the whole bar turns
to look at me.
“Paint,” I announce, holding up my red-stained hands before anyone can panic.
Duffy looks up from wiping down the bar, her eyes taking in my paint-covered palms and the wild look in my eyes. A slow grin
spreads across her face. “For a second there, I thought you’d killed another one of those Crow bastards.”
“The night is young,” I mutter, settling onto my usual barstool.
“Lavender gin fizz?” she asks, already reaching for the bottle.
“Make it a double. Actually, make it whatever’s strongest.”
Duffy’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline, but she doesn’t argue. She pours whiskey instead—the good stuff, judging by the
amber color and the way it catches the light. “Rough evening?”
I down half the glass in one gulp, feeling the burn all the way to my stomach. “You could say that.”
“Paint therapy, huh? Maya’s been getting a lot of customers lately. Good for the soul, apparently.” Duffy leans against the
bar. “What a funeral today. Hans was a treasure—one of the truly decent ones. Can’t imagine what Blue’s going through right
now.”
I stare into my whiskey, thinking about Hans’s grin, his off-key humming, how he always made sure I had everything I needed
before I even asked. “Hard to believe he’s gone.”
“Hans always looked out for people. Even customers he barely knew.” Duffy wipes down the same spot on the bar twice. “Seven years he worked for Blue. That kind of loyalty . . . you don’t see it much anymore.”
We sit quiet for a moment, both lost in our own thoughts about Hans.
“Tell Blue if he wants, I can do a bone reading for Hans,” Duffy says quietly, wiping down the same glass twice. “Sometimes
it helps with the grief. Gives people closure.”
“A bone reading?”
“It’s something my sisters and I do. We can read the last memories of the deceased through their bones, or sometimes through
flowers left at gravesites.” Duffy’s voice takes on a reverent quality. “See their final moments, understand what they experienced
before passing.”
I stare at her, not sure if I’m more fascinated or disturbed. “You can actually see what happened to them?”
“Every detail. Their last thoughts, their final emotions, what they saw.” She sets the glass down carefully. “It’s not always
pleasant, but families find comfort in knowing their loved ones weren’t alone, or that they died peacefully.”
“But what if the last thoughts aren’t good? Aren’t peaceful?” I lean forward, genuinely curious. “What if someone died violently,
or in fear?”
Duffy’s eyes take on a darker gleam. “Well, that’s when things get interesting. Justice. Revenge.” She meets my gaze directly.
“You know all about that.”
I nod slowly, and she gives me a knowing smile.
After a pause, Duffy’s expression shifts. “Grieving Hans must make all the planning really tough right now.”
“Planning?”
She studies my face carefully, looking confused. “All the planning it takes to move?”
“Move?”
Duffy’s face goes pale. “Oh. Oh shit. You have no idea?” She sets down the bottle carefully. “Saylor, please tell me you’re
joking.”
“Duffy, what the hell are you talking about?”
“The rumor mill is that you’re leaving town. Moving away. At least that’s what was told at the funeral.”
“What the absolute fuck?” The words tear out of my throat loud enough that several people at nearby tables look over.
Duffy winces sympathetically. “I take it you weren’t consulted about the move?”
“This is insane. This is completely fucking insane. He’s kicking me out,” I whisper, more to myself than to Duffy.
I stand up so fast my barstool tips backward, clattering against the floor. “I have to go.”
“Saylor, wait—”
But I’m already moving and heading for the door. The fury that had burned off during the painting session roars back to life,
twice as hot as before.
Kicked to the curb with no notice.
Without my knowledge, without my consent, without even the courtesy of a conversation.
The wind chimes crash together violently as I storm off the porch, their metallic song turning discordant and angry, matching
the rhythm of my heart as I head back into Grimlock’s twisted streets.