Chapter Thirty-Seven Blue
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Blue
“Have a nice evening,” I tell Saylor at the front door, each word clipped and cold.
She stops on the threshold, one hand on the doorframe, and I can see her building up to another attempt at conversation. Another
push against the walls I’ve built between us since Hans died. But I don’t have the energy for whatever she wants to discuss,
and I sure as hell don’t have the strength to pretend everything is normal when Hans’s body is cooling in the ground because
of choices I made.
“Blue—”
“I have some business to handle,” I say, already turning away. “Wren will see to whatever you need.”
“No.” The word stops me mid-step. When I turn back, Saylor has moved fully inside, closing the door behind her with deliberate
force. “I said we need to talk, and I meant it.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Bullshit.” Her voice cuts through the entrance hall. “You’ve been avoiding me for two days. Two days of showing up to meals
and eating in silence while I sit there wondering what the hell happened between us.”
I try to remain neutral, but something in her tone makes me want to end this conversation before it starts. “Hans died. That’s
what happened.”
“I know you cared about Hans, and his death is devastating.” She steps closer, and I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. “But
that doesn’t explain why you’ve shut me out completely. Why you won’t even look at me anymore.”
“I’m looking at you now.”
“No, you’re looking through me. There’s a difference.” Saylor crosses her arms. “Talk to me, Blue. Tell me what’s going on
in your head.”
“What’s going on in my head is that good people die when they get too close to me. Hans is proof of that.”
“So what, you’re going to punish me for Hans’s death? Make me feel like I don’t belong here because someone else made a choice
to help us?”
The accusation stings because it’s partially true. “This isn’t about punishment.”
“Then what is it about?” She moves closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume. “Because from where I’m standing, it
seems like you’re using Hans’s death as an excuse to push me away.”
“Maybe you should be pushed away.” The words are out before I can stop them, and I watch her face crumple. “Maybe the smart
thing would be to get as far from me as possible before you end up like everyone else who gets too close.”
Part of me knows I should be angry about the third floor—about her finding the skulls, violating the one boundary I set. But
after watching Hans die, after feeling his blood soak into the earth, her snooping through my most private space seems insignificant.
She broke my trust. She saw what I keep locked away. A week ago, that betrayal would have consumed me. Now? Now all I can
think about is that she’s at least alive to betray me, and I need to keep it that way—even if it means pushing her away.
“Fine.” She straightens, composing herself. “I have some business to handle too, then.”
“What business?”
“I think I’ll have the driver take me to town. Get a drink at Toil & Trouble.” She watches my face carefully as she says it.
“Talk to Duffy. Talk to someone.”
“Good idea,” I manage, although my jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth at the thought of her going anywhere without
me. But I can’t lock her in this house, even though part of me wants to. “I have a . . . driver out front with the car you
can use.”
“Fine.”
The door closes behind her with deliberate force, and I wait until I hear the car pull away before heading toward my study.
What I need is a drink and silence and maybe a few hours to figure out how to keep the rest of the people I care about from
ending up dead.
I push open the study door and freeze.
The room that used to be my sanctuary now feels haunted. Dark wood paneling climbs the walls, broken by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves
filled with first editions and rare manuscripts. The massive fireplace dominates one wall, its mantelpiece carved with hunting
scenes that seem too violent now. Persian rugs in deep burgundy cover the hardwood floors, and brass reading lamps cast pools
of warm light over leather furniture chosen for comfort rather than display.
But all I can see is Hans three weeks ago, standing by the window with a cup of coffee, watching the sunrise while he waited
for me to finish reviewing security reports. He’d been humming something—some German folk song from his childhood—completely
off-key but utterly content. When I’d looked up from my papers, he’d grinned and said, “Beautiful morning, Boss. Good day
to be alive, ja?”
Now Hans will never see another sunrise, and this room feels like a tomb.
Dr. Jay Finch sits in my leather chair behind my desk, feet propped up on the mahogany surface, reading my personal correspondence
with the casual attention of someone who belongs there.
“Evening, Blue,” he says without looking up from the letter in his hands. “Quite the send-off for Hans. The whole town marching
in perfect time? That was something else.”
“What are you doing in my house, Jay?” I close the door and move toward the liquor cabinet, because if I’m going to deal with
an uninvited therapist, I’m going to need whiskey. “And in my chair.”
“You haven’t been returning my calls.” Jay finally looks up, and I can see the professional concern masquerading as casual
interest. “Thought I’d make a house call. Check on my favorite homicidal patient after he lost someone who mattered.”
“I’m fine.”
“Clearly.” Jay gestures at the stack of unopened mail, the empty glasses scattered across my desk, the general air of a man
avoiding his own life. “That’s why you’ve been holed up in this mausoleum for two days, speaking to no one and avoiding the
world.”
I pour three fingers of whiskey and down half of it before responding. “Grief has its own timeline.”
“Grief, yes. Self-destruction masquerading as grief, no.” Jay swings his feet down and leans forward. “Blue, you’ve shut down completely. You’re not processing what happened, you’re just . . . existing in a state of suspended animation.”
“Hans is dead because of me.” The words come out flat, factual. “He died protecting someone I brought into his world. How
exactly am I supposed to process that?”
“By talking about it instead of drinking yourself into a coma and shutting out everyone who cares about you.”
I set down my glass harder than necessary. “I’m not in the mood for therapy, Jay. Save the analysis for someone who gives
a damn. Plus, after the other night, I’m no longer murder sober so . . .”
“That was self defense.”
“Well what comes next for the Crow won’t be.”
Jay sighs. “We can address your sobriety at another time, but today I’m here because of your grief over Hans.”
“Jay . . .”
“Right. Because you’ve never lost anyone before in your line of work.” Jay’s tone becomes more clinical. “Blue, you’ve seen
more death than most people see in ten lifetimes. You’ve lost contacts, allies, people you worked with. Hell, you lost Peter—your
best friend—and you handled that by going on a murder rampage. This is part of what you do. Part of what Hans signed up for
when he chose to work with you.”
“This is different.”
“How? How is this different from Peter’s death? How is this different from all the other times?” Jay sits back in my chair.
“Hans knew the risks. You knew the risks. So explain to me why this particular death has you hiding away instead of moving
forward.”
The question sits in the air between us, and for a moment I consider throwing him out. But the whiskey has loosened something
in my chest, and maybe I need to say this out loud.
“Because losing Hans is like losing Peter all over again.” The words scrape out of me.
“Peter saw something in me worth saving when I was just another killer with blood on his hands. He believed I could be more than the monster everyone expected. And Hans . . . Hans was the same. He chose me. Not my money, not my connections, not what I could do for him. He saw the good in me even when I was doing terrible things.” I stare into my glass.
“Peter showed me I was worth saving. Hans showed me I was worth staying saved. And now they’re both gone because I couldn’t protect them.
” I pause, searching for the right words.
“Hans was good. Really good, even when he was helping me do terrible things. He showed me that sometimes you have to do bad to do good, but he also made me realize I was fucking exhausted. Tired of the killing, tired of the violence, tired of being the monster everyone expected me to be. And Hans . . . Hans made me realize it was okay to feel that way. That maybe it was time to stop.”
“And now he’s dead because of that choice.”
“Now he’s dead because I brought violence back into our lives.” I drain the rest of my whiskey. “He died protecting me from
a choice I made to come out of retirement.”
Jay is quiet for a long moment, studying my face with that calculating look that means he’s processing everything I just said.
“Hans wouldn’t want you to carry this guilt,” he says finally.
“Well, Hans isn’t here to have an opinion about it.”
“No, but I am. And my professional opinion is that you’re using grief as an excuse to avoid dealing with the real problem.”
“Which is?”
“You’re terrified that what happened to Hans will happen to Saylor.” Jay leans back in my chair. “Based on what I saw at the
funeral, you’re shutting her out because you think distance will keep her safe. But all you’re doing is pushing away the one
person who might actually understand what you’re going through.”
“Saylor doesn’t understand anything about what I’m going through.”
“Doesn’t she? She watched her father get murdered. She’s living in a world of violence she never asked for.” Jay cocks his
head to the side. “Sound familiar?”
The comparison stings. Saylor and I, both dragged into darkness by circumstances beyond our control. Both trying to figure
out how to live with blood on our hands.
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” Jay studies my face. “You know what I think? I think you’re using Hans’s death as an excuse to avoid something that
scares you more than any Crow ever could.”
“And what’s that?”
“Actually caring about someone enough to let them in.”
I finish my whiskey and pour another. “Your point?”