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)
The finality in her tone makes it clear this topic is closed. I focus on my breakfast instead, but the toast—thick artisan bread that tastes magical—might as well be sawdust. I can barely manage half a slice. Eating alone in this dining room makes me understand why Blue insisted we always eat together. The silence isn’t peaceful; it’s oppressive. The house is holding its breath, waiting for something interesting to happen.
Which is exactly what’s going to get me in trouble again.
My brain keeps drifting back to the third floor. Those locked doors with their fancy keyholes, all those skeleton keys hanging in the hallway. Blue’s “punishment” last night was definitely a distraction, but it didn’t exactly kill my curiosity about what he’s hiding up there.
And that kind of thinking is how I will end up handcuffed to his bed again, except next time he might not be in such a generous mood.
But more than that, I keep thinking about him and Hans out there somewhere, doing whatever it is Blue does when his restless soul needs tending. The helplessness claws at my chest, making me want to go exploring for answers, for proof that the stories about seven wives are more than small-town gossip.
“Wren,” I call, pushing away my barely touched breakfast. “I think I need to get out of this house before I do something stupid.”
She appears in the doorway instantly. “Something stupid, how?”
“Either trying to pick locks I have no business picking, or figuring out how to hot-wire that fancy car in the garage and going after Blue myself.”
“Ah.” Wren nods sagely. “Neither of those options would end well for anyone involved.”
“Exactly.” I stand up, smoothing my skirt. “Any chance I could get a ride into town? I promise not to get kidnapped, murdered, or otherwise ruin Blue’s day.”
Wren considers this while wiping her hands on her apron. With Blue and Hans gone, her protective duties have shifted. “I suppose I could use some things from town. And someone should check on Elliott. That man forgets to eat when he’s experimenting with new recipes.”
“Perfect,” I say, already standing. “Give me five minutes to grab my purse.”
I rush upstairs, trading my house slippers for black Mary Janes and checking my reflection one more time. The emerald dress still hugs my curves perfectly, the color making my skin look luminous instead of tired. I add the one piece of jewelry that matters—Dad’s vintage compass necklace, its brass face worn smooth from decades of his thumb tracing over it. He gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday, saying every Mitchell needed to know how to find their way home. The weight of it against my chest is both comforting and heartbreaking, a reminder that I’m still trying to figure out where home is. At least my red lipstick is still perfect, which feels appropriate for whatever I’m about to get myself into.
Wren is waiting by the front door when I return, keys already in hand and a small shopping list tucked into her coat pocket.
Soon I’m riding shotgun in Wren’s old but perfect Buick, watching Grimlock’s twisted streets unfold. The morning fog clings to every surface like secrets made visible, transforming familiar buildings into something from a half-remembered dream. Cobblestones disappear and reappear through the mist, shop windows glow like lanterns floating in gray silk, and the whole town breathes with the rhythm of something alive and bygone. It’s a beauty that makes you understand why people write ghost stories.
“Wren,” I say as we navigate an alley that definitely wasn’t designed for cars, “hypothetically speaking, if someone wanted to kill people but couldn’t handle blood, what would you suggest?”
Wren doesn’t even blink. “Hypothetically?”
“Completely hypothetically.”
“Well, that’s a bit of a pickle, isn’t it? Wanting to kill people but squeamish about blood.” Wren navigates another impossible turn. “It’s a bit like wanting to bake bread but being afraid of flour.”
“I’m not squeamish. I just . . . throw up when things get stabby.”
“That’s called being squeamish.” Wren’s tone is matter-of-fact. “Most people in the killing business just power through the mess. But there are alternatives.”
“Such as?”
“Poison, obviously. Much cleaner than axes. More elegant too.” She takes a corner that shouldn’t be physically possible. “Although it takes patience. Can’t just stab and run.”
“I think I could manage patience.” I watch a woman tending a garden where every flower is purple and not the usual black I’ve seen before. “Where would someone hypothetically get poison? Asking for a friend.”
“Your friend has interesting hobbies.” Wren’s mouth twitches. “Toil & Trouble. Duffy stocks everything you need, no questions asked. She and Blue have an understanding.”
An understanding. Because apparently when you’re in the murder business, there’s a whole network of suppliers.
“Could you drop me there?”
“Of course. Just promise me you’ll be smart about whatever you’re planning.”
“Define smart.”
“Don’t get caught. Don’t make messes for other people to clean up. And for god’s sake, don’t poison anyone at Blue’s dinner parties. The man has enough social problems.”