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)
I take another step toward her, ignoring the way she flinches. “Saylor, listen to me—”
“No!” She backs away, her shoulder hitting the wall. “Stay away from me!”
The raw terror in her voice stops me cold. This isn’t just about the bodies or the blood—it’s about trust, about control, about a twenty-three-year-old woman who’s been through hell and is now being asked to trust two more killers with her life.
I catch Hans’s eye and nod toward the chloroform in his jacket pocket. She’s going to fight this, and we don’t have time for a lengthy negotiation. Every minute we waste here is another chance for more Crow to arrive.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, meaning it completely.
Hans moves behind her with surprising grace for such a large man. The chloroform-soaked rag appears in his hands like a magic trick, covering her nose and mouth before she can scream or run or throw something at my head.
Her eyes lock on mine as the drug takes hold, wide with shock and betrayal. She trusted me long enough to let her guard down, and I just violated that trust completely.
But she’s alive. That’s what matters.
“The steamer trunk in the corner,” I tell Hans, pointing to the antique chest they probably used to transport her here.
Hans lifts her gently, placing her inside the trunk with more care than these assholes ever showed her. She looks impossibly small curled up in there, like a sleeping child.
“This still feels wrong, Boss,” Hans mutters, securing the latches. “Like we are kidnapping her.”
“We are kidnapping her.” No point in pretending otherwise. “But we’re kidnapping her away from people who would torture and kill her. Context matters.”
“Will she see it that way?”
Probably not. She’ll wake up angry, confused, and ready to murder me with whatever’s handy. But she’ll wake up alive, which is more than she can say if we’d left her with the Crow.
Chapter Seven
Blue
My therapist’s office is a library that had a nervous breakdown.
Dr. Jay Finch’s domain is a masterclass in organized chaos—if you can call towers of psychiatric journals balanced on coffee-stained coasters “organized.” Post-it Notes cover every surface like yellow confetti, each one scribbled with reminders that range from “pick up dry cleaning” to “research sociopathic tendencies in maritime professions.” His desk is an archaeological dig of half-finished thoughts, fidget spinners, and a sandwich—based on the mold formed—from the Mesozoic Era.
“Blue!” Jay springs up from behind his fortress of academic debris, immediately knocking over a precarious stack of books. He doesn’t bother picking them up. “Right on time! Well, technically seventeen minutes late, but who’s counting? I’ve been thinking about our last session and—oh shit, you have that look. The ‘I almost broke my sobriety’ look. Please tell me you didn’t kill anyone.”
I settle into the leather chair across from his desk—the only clean surface in the entire office—and study the man who’s supposed to be fixing my broken brain. Jay Finch is sixty-something with silver hair that reminds me of someone who stuck his finger in an electrical socket, wire-rimmed glasses perpetually sliding down his nose, and a nervous energy that makes you wonder if he’s the patient here.
“I may have had a minor setback,” I say, crossing my ankle over my knee.
Jay’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Ooh, setback! I love setbacks. They’re so much more interesting than progress.” He grabs a notepad from somewhere in the chaos, immediately drops it, picks up a different one, then stares at it like he’s forgotten what it’s for. “Define minor. On a scale of one to ‘I broke three years of murder sobriety,’ how minor are we talking?”
“I didn’t kill anyone. But I wanted to. God, I wanted to.”
“Okay, so that’s actually huge progress.” Jay pushes his glasses up his nose and they immediately slide back down. “Three years clean, Blue. Remember what happened last time? After Peter died?”
“Eighteen kills in two months.”
“Right, right, the killing spree that made you realize you needed help. The one where you lost track of Peter’s daughter because you were too busy painting the country red.” Jay starts pacing behind his desk, stepping over books like they’re landmines. “So, what triggered the urge this time?”
“I found Peter’s daughter. The Crow had her. Grabbed her from her apartment, dragged her to some shithole cabin in the mountains. By the time Hans and I tracked them down, she’d been there for hours.”
Jay stops pacing. “And you didn’t kill them?”
I shift in my chair. “Hans handled it. I watched. Not completely innocent, I know. But at least I didn’t kill. Counted breaths like you taught me. In for four, hold for four, out for four.”
“Holy shit, you actually used the techniques.” Jay grabs a stress ball from his desk, squeezes it twice, then tosses it up and catches it. “Blue, that’s incredible. Three years ago, you would have redecorated that cabin with their entrails. What happened next?”