Chapter Twenty-Six Saylor #2
“I came to New York when I was eighteen with nothing but a fake ID and a suitcase. Been singing in jazz clubs ever since, trying to make it.” I laugh, but there’s no bitterness in it.
“I was convinced I was one good break away from making it. One record deal, one famous musician hearing me sing, one magical moment that would change everything.”
“And instead?”
“Instead I learned that sometimes the universe has different plans.” I touch the compass necklace through my dress. “Dad used
to say that life isn’t about getting what you want, it’s about figuring out what you actually need.”
Duffy softens. “What do you think you need now?”
Before I can answer, she reaches across the bar and touches my hand gently. Her fingers are warm, calloused from years of
handling bottles and cleaning glasses.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “most people who end up in Grimlock are looking for a place where they can stop pretending
to be something they’re not. A place where their darker impulses are understood, not judged.” She studies my face. “You have
that look—like you’re tired of hiding who you really are.”
I pull my hand back, surprised by how accurately she’s read me. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s been there.” Duffy’s smile turns knowing. “I like that about you. This town needs more people who are
ready to embrace their true nature.”
The compliment settles warm in my chest, but then reality kicks in. Duffy’s being so understanding about all this—about Blue,
about people embracing their “true nature.” She makes it sound normal, even healthy.
And that should probably worry me more than it does.
“Duffy,” I say, taking another sip for courage, “what do you actually know about Blue? I mean, besides those wife rumors you
mentioned.”
Duffy pauses, her hand stilling on the glass she’s been wiping. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything real. He’s so contradictory—in some ways he’s completely open, tells me exactly what he’s thinking. But then there
are these walls, these things he won’t talk about. What did he do before he came to Grimlock?”
Duffy sets down the glass and looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know . . . it’s his story to tell, you know?”
“Come on,” I press. “I’m not asking for state secrets. I just want to understand how a man ends up living alone in a freaking castle. That’s not normal, even by Grimlock standards.”
She laughs despite herself. “Fair point. You want to know how Blue afforded that mansion?” Duffy glances around the empty
bar, then leans closer. “Word is he inherited a fortune from some European arms dealer who died under mysterious circumstances.
Blue was working for him when it happened.” Duffy wipes down the same spot on the bar twice. “But here’s the thing about Blue . . .
He never keeps the money for himself. Half the businesses in Grimlock exist because Blue quietly funded them. The bakery,
this place. He bought the building and lets me and my sisters run it rent-free.”
That’s not what I expected to hear. “Why would he do that?”
“Because Grimlock is his project. His attempt at . . . redemption, maybe? Building a community where people like him can exist
without pretending to be something they’re not. The man’s trying to buy his way into heaven, one small business at a time.”
Something about the way she talks about Blue—with understanding rather than judgment—makes me feel like I can trust her. And
maybe it’s the gin, or maybe it’s the way she’s been so matter-of-fact about everything, but I find myself wanting to tell
her the truth.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask, glancing around to make sure we’re still alone.
“I’m a bartender. Secrets are part of the job description.”
I take a breath. “There are people who need to die. People who killed my father five years ago and got away with it.” The
words come out harder than I intended. “They’re called the Crow, and they’re the reason I’ve been running, hiding, pretending
to be someone I’m not.”
Duffy’s expression shifts immediately. “The Crow.” She says it like she’s tasting something bitter. “Our charming neighbors
across the Witchwood. Yeah, I know exactly who they are.”
“I want them dead. I’ve wanted them dead for years. I have dreams about it, fantasies about making them pay.” I take a shaky
breath. “But here’s the problem—I see blood and I completely lose it. Throw up, pass out, the whole pathetic show. So wanting
revenge and actually getting it are two very different things.”
“Ah.” Duffy nods knowingly. “You need a method that keeps your hands clean.”
“Wren mentioned you might be able to help with that.”
Duffy’s demeanor shifts, becoming more guarded. She crosses her arms and studies me carefully. “Did she now? And what exactly
makes you think I’d help some newcomer settle a blood feud with our neighbors?”
“I’m not some newcomer,” I say, heat rising in my voice. “I’m staying with Blue. And the Crow killed my father.”
“Lot of people have grudges against the Crow. Doesn’t mean I hand out party favors to anyone who asks.” Duffy’s eyes narrow.
“What’s your connection to Blue, really? Because if you’re just some girl he’s keeping around for entertainment, this conversation
ends now.”
The dismissive tone makes my jaw clench. “Blue knew my father. They were . . . friends. Close friends. My father asked Blue
to protect me before he died.”
Something in Duffy’s expression softens slightly, but she’s still wary. “Peter Mitchell.”
I blink, surprised. “You knew him?”
“Knew of him. Blue doesn’t talk much about his past, but Peter’s name comes up occasionally. Usually when Blue’s had too much
to drink.” She uncrosses her arms but doesn’t move toward the apothecary shelves yet. “So the Crow killed Peter Mitchell . . .
and now the daughter wants revenge.”
“Now the daughter wants justice,” I correct.
Duffy tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “Justice. Right.” She’s quiet for a long moment.
“You sure you can handle this? Killing someone isn’t like singing on stage. There’s no applause at the end.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I’ve already . . . it’s not theoretical anymore.”
Duffy’s eyebrows raise and she looks at me with new interest. “Well then. That changes things.” She finally moves toward the
apothecary section with more purpose. “Looking for something cleaner than a blade, I take it?” She runs her fingers along
various bottles. “You’re definitely not the first. Half my customers are too squeamish for proper stabbing. Good thing I stock
alternatives.”
I watch her select a small bottle filled with tiny blue spheres that look like miniature boba pearls. “What are those?”
“These are rather special,” Duffy says, holding up the bottle to catch the light. “Dissolves completely in any liquid, no
taste, and gives about ten minutes of consciousness while everything shuts down. Enough time for a meaningful farewell speech
but not enough for rescue.”
I stare at the bottle, equal parts fascinated and horrified. “What are they exactly?”
“Trade secret, sorry. But they won’t show up on any toxicology screen. My discerning customers love them.” She pulls out a
small velvet bag and drops the bottle inside. “And they’re blue. I thought you might appreciate the aesthetic touch.”
“Perfect,” I say, taking the bag. “Thank you.”
“On the house for a promising new artist.” Duffy’s smile is warm but knowing. “Just remember—poison is an art form. Start
small, test your dosages, and never use the same method twice. Keeps things interesting.”
The velvet bag feels heavier than it should in my purse, like it contains more than just tiny blue spheres—like it holds the
weight of a decision I can’t take back. But instead of fear, I feel something like relief. Finally, a path forward that doesn’t
involve me fainting at the first sign of blood.
I finish my gin fizz in one long pull, the lavender burning slightly on the way down. “Thank you,” I tell Duffy. “For understanding.
For helping.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she says, wiping down the bar where my glass was. “Wait until you see how this all plays out.”
I settle back onto my barstool, checking the time. Still have twenty minutes before Wren comes back. The poison feels like
a secret burning in my purse, and I can’t stop touching the velvet bag through the leather.
“Saylor,” Duffy says, her voice dropping lower.
“The Crow aren’t just killers. They’re survivors who’ve done unspeakable things to innocent people.
Men who deserve everything that’s coming to them.
” She leans closer across the bar. “Little secret—my sisters and I also believe in ‘justice.’ But be smart about this. Don’t underestimate them. ”
I look up at her, and for the first time in five years, I smile with real anticipation. “They underestimated my father once.
That was their mistake.”
Duffy nods slowly. “Just remember what I said about dosages. Start small.”
I touch the velvet bag through my purse one more time. Such tiny little spheres to carry so much hope.