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.”
I’m really starting to love Wren.
Wren drops me off at Toil & Trouble with a promise to pick me up in an hour. The wind chimes on the wraparound porch create their unique melodic chaos as I approach the crimson door.
The familiar scent of lavender mixed with something that smells like a forest floor hits me the moment I step inside. Duffy’s behind the bar, reorganizing her collection of spirit bottles, and when she spots me, her face breaks into a grin.
“Well, well. Look who’s back.” She sets down a bottle she’s holding and reaches for the gin. “Let me guess—lavender gin fizz to start the day right?”
“Please. And make it a double.”
“Starting early today, are we?” Duffy grins as she begins mixing. “Not that I’m judging. I heard about your performance at Blue’s party from half the town. Sorry I missed it—my sisters and I tend to keep to ourselves during social gatherings.”
“Introverts who own a bar?” I raise an eyebrow. “That seems counterintuitive.”
“We serve drinks, we don’t make small talk,” Duffy says with a laugh. “There’s a difference. Besides, most of our regulars prefer it that way.” She pauses, searching for words while muddling lavender. “But from what everyone’s saying, your singing was something else. Where’d you learn to sing like that?”
“My dad, mostly. He had this huge collection of old jazz records—Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone. I grew up listening to them.” I settle onto a barstool, watching her work. The morning light streaming through the stained-glass windows turns everything amber and gold. “Started singing along when I was maybe five, and Dad said I had it. The ear, you know?”
“Natural talent.” Duffy slides the finished drink across the bar. “That’s rare.”
I take a sip and close my eyes for a moment. The gin tastes perfect—floral and complex with just enough edge. “This is incredible. You really know what you’re doing.”
“Just a bartender who pays attention.” Duffy leans against the counter, studying my face. “So what’s your story, Saylor Mitchell? Before Grimlock, before Blue, before everything went sideways?”
