Page 19 of Saving Saul

“No,” I interrupt, anger bubbling to the surface. “Youdon’tget it. I fulfilled my contract. I played along and smiled for your cameras. But somehow, I fell in love. And what did I get in return? Silence. He disappears, and suddenly, I’m the crazy one for wanting answers?”

The line is quiet for a beat, and I swear I can hear Gavin pinching the bridge of his nose. “Take care of yourself, Tessa,” he says finally, his voice a mix of regret and dismissal. And then the line goes dead.

The click echoes in my ear, louder than it has any right to be. “Take care of myself,” I mutter, tossing the phone onto the counter. “Yeah, thanks for the advice, Gavin.”

I press my palms against the counter's edge, trying to steady my breath. The refrigerator hums softly, filling the kitchen’s silence, but it’s not enough to drown out the pounding in my chest. My fingers drift to the pearls around my neck, their cool surface grounding me. But tonight, they feel different. Warmer.Almost alive, humming faintly against my skin—a sensation that’s been growing stronger since Saul disappeared.

A sign,Grandmère would say.The ancestors are speaking.

“Yeah, well,” I whisper to the empty kitchen, the words tinged with bitterness. “The ancestors aren’t the ones who’ll look like fools when this season drops on every streaming service in eight months.”

The pearls pulse again as if rejecting my anger, as if they know something I don’t. I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath, the weight of the past few weeks settling heavily on my shoulders. The dreams, the signs, the pull I can’t explain—they all point to one thing: I’m not done with Saul. Not yet.

My chest aches at the thought of him. The man who whispered promises through a wall, who made me believe in forever, who vanished without so much as a goodbye. How could he? How could someone so steady and deliberate leave me floundering like this?

The pearls hum against my neck, a steady rhythm that feels comforting and maddening. I don’t want comfort. I want answers.

“If you think you can disappear and hide behind NDAs and legal threats, Saul Mensah, you’ve got another thing coming,” I mutter, my voice sharp in the stillness. “I deserve to know why you made me believe in something that wasn’t real.”

I tell myself it’s about closure, about demanding he explain why he left me standing there, heart in my hands. But deep down, I know it’s more than that. It’s the dreams that won’t let me sleep. The way my heart clenches every time I picture his face. The gnawing fear that something is wrong—that he’s hurting, drowning in his trauma, and too proud to ask for help.

The anger surges again, hot and consuming. How dare he leave me like this? How dare he make me care this much?

My hand tightens around the pearls, their warmth seeping into my skin. Grandmère always said they carried the strength of the Sinclair women, a reminder that we’re never alone. Tonight, they feel like a lifeline.

I grab the file I’ve been working on, filled with everything I’ve compiled about Saul. Photos, printed emails, notes scribbled on napkins—it’s a chaotic mess, but it’s all I have. Every lead I’ve chased, every scrap of information I’ve uncovered, is in these pages.

“Alright, Saul,” I murmur, flipping through the file. “You’re not ghosting me that easily.”

The pearls pulse again, their rhythm steady and insistent. It’s as if they’re urging me forward, whispering that I’m on the right path, even if I don’t fully understand it yet.

I square my shoulders, determination flooding through me like a second heartbeat. I have one month left on my LA lease. One month to find him, to confront him, to demand the truth. He’s likely in one of three places: London, Accra, or Maine.

This time, I’ll find him. Not because I need closure. Not because I want to curse him out for leaving me in the lurch. But because, deep down, I know this isn’t the end of our story.

If he’s hurting, I’ll remind him he doesn’t have to face it alone. And if I’m wrong—if he was just a lying jerk—then I’ll make him look me in the eye and own it.

And then? Then I’ll go back to New Orleans. Back to my city, my rhythm, my life. For good.

A NEW HOME

SAUL (MARCUS MITCHELL)

Two Months after Reveal Day

I’m standingbehind the bar at Crescent Hall, pretending I know what I’m doing, when the sound of heavy boots thudding against the concrete floors makes me glance up.

Cecil Boudreaux.The man is massive—easily seven feet tall—with skin dark enough to blend seamlessly into the shadows that cling to the corners of this gritty space. Tiny, intricate scars mark his face, each one deliberate, like the rosary beads he fingers absentmindedly. He’s not the kind of man you mess with, and he knows it.

“New guy?” His voice rumbles low, like a warning bell in the night.

“That’s me,” I say, keeping my tone steady as I wipe my hands on the rag slung over my shoulder. “Marcus Mitchell.”

His eyes narrow, and I feel like a bug under a magnifying glass for a moment. He doesn’t believe me—I can tell from the skeptical tilt of his head and how his gaze lingers on mine just a fraction too long. But he doesn’t call me out. Not yet.

That’s not his way.

I wonder if it would be his way if he knew I was a murderer.

---