Something in Duffy’s expression softens slightly, but she’s still wary. “Peter Mitchell.”
I blink, surprised. “You knew him?”
“Knew of him. Blue doesn’t talk much about his past, but Peter’s name comes up occasionally. Usually when Blue’s had too much to drink.” She uncrosses her arms but doesn’t move toward the apothecary shelves yet. “So the Crow killed Peter Mitchell... and now the daughter wants revenge.”
“Now the daughter wants justice,” I correct.
Duffy tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “Justice. Right.” She’s quiet for a long moment. “You sure you can handle this? Killing someone isn’t like singing on stage. There’s no applause at the end.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I’ve already... it’s not theoretical anymore.”
Duffy’s eyebrows raise and she looks at me with new interest. “Well then. That changes things.” She finally moves toward the apothecary section with more purpose. “Looking for something cleaner than a blade, I take it?” She runs her fingers along various bottles. “You’re definitely not the first. Half my customers are too squeamish for proper stabbing. Good thing I stock alternatives.”
I watch her select a small bottle filled with tiny blue spheres that look like miniature boba pearls. “What are those?”
“These are rather special,” Duffy says, holding up the bottle to catch the light. “Dissolves completely in any liquid, no taste, and gives about ten minutes of consciousness while everything shuts down. Enough time for a meaningful farewell speech but not enough for rescue.”
I stare at the bottle, equal parts fascinated and horrified. “What are they exactly?”
“Trade secret, sorry. But they won’t show up on any toxicology screen. My discerning customers love them.” She pulls out a small velvet bag and drops the bottle inside. “And they’re blue. I thought you might appreciate the aesthetic touch.”
“Perfect,” I say, taking the bag. “Thank you.”
“On the house for a promising new artist.” Duffy’s smile is warm but knowing. “Just remember—poison is an art form. Start small, test your dosages, and never use the same method twice. Keeps things interesting.”
The velvet bag feels heavier than it should in my purse, like it contains more than just tiny blue spheres—like it holds the weight of a decision I can’t take back. But instead of fear, I feel something like relief. Finally, a path forward that doesn’t involve me fainting at the first sign of blood.
I finish my gin fizz in one long pull, the lavender burning slightly on the way down. “Thank you,” I tell Duffy. “For understanding. For helping.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she says, wiping down the bar where my glass was. “Wait until you see how this all plays out.”
I settle back onto my barstool, checking the time. Still have twenty minutes before Wren comes back. The poison feels like a secret burning in my purse, and I can’t stop touching the velvet bag through the leather.
“Saylor,” Duffy says, her voice dropping lower. “The Crow aren’t just killers. They’re survivors who’ve done unspeakable things to innocent people. Men who deserve everything that’s coming to them.” She leans closer across the bar. “Little secret—my sisters and I alsobelieve in ‘justice.’ But be smart about this. Don’t underestimate them.”
I look up at her, and for the first time in five years, I smile with real anticipation. “They underestimated my father once. That was their mistake.”
Duffy nods slowly. “Just remember what I said about dosages. Start small.”
I touch the velvet bag through my purse one more time. Such tiny little spheres to carry so much hope.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Blue
“So,” Jay says before I’m even through the door, “I have to ask—was the corpse centerpiece a planned part of the evening’s entertainment, or did you just wake up that morning and think, ‘You know what this dinner party needs? Dead people decor’?”
I settle into my chair while he frantically searches through desk drawers like he’s looking for something stronger than his usual coffee. “You seemed to enjoy yourself well enough. I saw you having quite the conversation with Dame Gothel.”
“I have to admit,” he continues, finally locating a hip flask buried under a stack of case studies, “I’m still processing the fact that you used Samuel Crow as a floral arrangement. Very artistic, by the way. The blue flowers were a nice touch.”
“Thank you. I thought the color coordination was important.” Icross my ankle over my knee, settling in for what’s clearly going to be a longer session than usual. “And before you ask—don’t worry, I didn’t fall off the wagon. Hans did the killing. Although that’s not why I’m here today.”
“Oh god.” Jay sets down the flask without opening it. “What happened after I left the party?”
Jay blinks. Once. Twice. Then he uncaps the flask and takes a long pull.
“It’s ten-thirty in the morning, Jay.”
