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?”
“I relocated her to a safer environment. In a steamer trunk.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Jay slumps into his chair, which immediately starts spinning in slow circles. He doesn’t try to stop it. “Relocated. That’s what we’re calling it now?”
“It sounds better than kidnapped.”
“But you did kidnap her.”
“Technically, yes.”
“There’s no ‘technically’ about trunk-based transportation, Blue.”
“She’s perfectly safe at Maison Rouge. Wren is taking excellent care of her.”
“Wren, your housekeeper who used to help you dispose of body parts for fifteen years.” Jay’s chair has completed three full rotations. “Let me get this straight. You maintained your sobriety even when the Crow had Peter’s daughter, but you still kidnapped her?”
“Relocated. The urge to kill them was... overwhelming. But I knew if I started again, I wouldn’t stop. Just like last time.”
“Right, the post-Peter murder bender. So you let Hans do the dirty work while you what, meditated in the same room?”
“Something like that.”
“And then you decided the logical next step was to stuff her in luggage?”
“There’s something else.”
“Oh good, because this story needed more complications.”
