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)
“That’s concerning from a mental health perspective, but continue.”
“Most people either want to fix me or use me. Saylor just wants to understand me.” I pause as I realize the strength of my words. “She doesn’t try to make me into something I’m not.”
Jay makes a note in his pad. “And how does that make you feel?”
“Like I might actually deserve to be understood.”
The admission hangs between us, and I immediately regret saying it. This is what happens when Jay gets me talking. Somehow he always manages to excavate thoughts I didn’t even know I was having.
Jay clears his throat. “So how are those murder lessons going? Last session you mentioned she wanted to learn how to kill her father’s murderers herself.”
“She’s really bad at it,” I say finally.
“Bad at what, exactly?”
“The killing. She’s an awful student, to be honest. Can’t see blood without throwing up.”
Jay blinks slowly. “And you’re . . . persisting with this approach because?”
“Because she asked me to.”
Jay sets down his pen very carefully. “So you’re continuing to traumatize your girlfriend who clearly isn’t cut out for violence because she asked nicely?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“What is she, then?”
I don’t have an answer ready for that. What is Saylor? My houseguest? My responsibility? My obsession?
“She’s mine,” I say finally. “I don’t know what that makes her, but she’s mine.”
Jay reaches for his flask again. “Okay, we’re definitely going to need to unpack that statement, but first—give me specifics. How bad are we talking?”
I think about Saylor in the basement with Julian, how she accidentally killed him and then threw up. Then later at dinner, the way her hand shook before she drove the knife through Leroy’s palm. How she fainted when she saw the blood.
“She wants to kill people but can’t handle the mess.”
“She can’t actually go through with it.”
“She’s getting better. Last night at dinner she managed to stab Leroy Crow through the hand before the nausea kicked in.”
Jay stares at me. “You brought dinner guests home just so she could practice stabbing them?”
“I thought it would be a good learning opportunity.”
“Jesus Christ, Blue.” Jay downs the rest of his flask. “A formal dinner party? With place settings and everything?”
“Wren made braised short ribs. It would have been a waste not to use the good china.”
“I’m not questioning the menu, I’m questioning the fact that you’re treating murder like a dinner theater production.” But there’s almost amusement in his voice. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m still on board with giving her agency back. Teaching her to defend herself is the right call. But did it have to be so . . . theatrical?”
“The Crow aren’t going to attack her in a convenient location. She needs to be comfortable with violence in any setting.”
“Fair point.” Jay refills his flask. “And she actually went through with it? Stabbed him at the table?”
“Through the hand. Then vomited and passed out, but yes.”
“But she did it.” Jay considers this. “That’s progress, right? First time she couldn’t even hold the knife steady. Now she’s actually drawing blood, even if her stomach protests.”
“Exactly. She’s learning.”
“Learning.” Jay shakes his head with a slight smile. “Only you would consider ‘stabbed someone before fainting’ as educational progress. But I have to ask—is this approach really working? Because it sounds like she’s forcing herself through something she’s not ready for.”
“She asked for this.”
“I know. And I think she should have the choice. That’s why I supported this whole murder mentorship thing in the first place.” Jay leans forward. “But maybe there’s a middle ground between helpless victim and dinner party assassin? Something that doesn’t involve traumatic vomiting?”
“You might be right.” The admission surprises both of us. “The dinner party was probably overkill.”
“Literally.” Jay’s lip twitches. “But hey, at least Wren got to show off her culinary skills.”
“She does make excellent braised short ribs.”
“See? Silver lining.” Jay caps his flask. “Just maybe dial back the production value next time. Save the formal dinners for people who aren’t on the menu. And be careful . . . she isn’t like you.”
“I know she’s not like me,” I say quietly. “She won’t become what I became.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because she still throws up when she sees blood. Because she asks questions about whether killing is right instead of just doing it. Because she—” I stop, realizing what I’m about to say.
“Because she what?”
“Because she makes me want to be better than I am.”
The admission comes out before I can stop it, and Jay’s entire demeanor shifts. He sets down his flask and actually focuses on me with attention that makes me want to leave.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he says softly. “Tell me about that.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Blue, you just admitted that someone makes you want to change. In three years of therapy, you’ve never said anything like that.”
“I’ve changed plenty. I retired, didn’t I?”