Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
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.”