Page 20 of Saving Saul

Patrick’s death plays on a loop in my mind, burned into my consciousness. I can still hear the creak of the floorboards beneath my feet, the stench of his cheap booze hanging in the air like a warning.

I was too late. Too late to stop him from forcing his way into my grandmother’s home, too late to protect her and my sister from the monster I’d spent years trying to shield them from. A well-placed neighbor had filled me in when I got to Maine. Patrick had been in the house for a day and a half before I arrived, and no one had left since.

The system didn’t keep the monster at bay. His brothers—an arm of the Irish mob—saw to that. My grandmother, bless her soul, was deep in denial about the danger they posed, but I wasn’t. I made it my business to know the risks, to understand the strings they could pull, and how far their reach extended.

Money and a well-placed alias can buy you anything.

When my contracted security team confirmed what the neighbor reported, there was no doubt about what needed to be done.

I left the show, my new LA restaurant, and Tessa behind to end his life, and I have no remorse.

I waited until midnight, knowing he’d be good and drunk. I snuck in through the patio door and checked on my sleeping sister. She looked unharmed. But my grandmother’s face was black and blue. The monster had beat the breaks off her, and my resolve sharpened.

I walked up to him while he sat in his chair and did something I thought would never happen. I yanked the garrote I had prepared from my back pocket and choked him mercilessly until he took his last breath. The room went silent, and all I could hear was the thumping of my heart echoing in my ears. Mymind raced with a million thoughts, but one idea stood out more than any other: My family is finally safe.

They’ll never find his body.

But I had to leave. Of course, I couldn’t stay in Maine. From the messages I intercepted between him and his brothers, he planned to kidnap Sheena, kill my grandmother, and head to Ireland. He must have a judge in his pocket to get that approval while on parole.

For all his brothers know, his plan worked. But I knew they might start looking for him when his communication became nonexistent.

So, I hid my grandmother and Sheena away in Ghana for a while.

It’s been two months, and I haven’t heard a peep from them, and the streets aren’t talking about Patrick’s disappearance.

But That doesn’t mean this is over.

“Marcus Mitchell,” Cecil repeats slowly, his tone making it clear he knows that’s not my name. “Are you any good on the fryer?”

I nod. “I can handle it.”

“We’ll see.” He gestures for me to follow, and I fall in behind him, my boots scuffing the worn floor of Crescent Hall. The place has character—a mix of old-school grit and unpolished charm that feels like a time capsule from the eighties.

According to my security team’s reports, the Warehouse District may have changed—polished, gentrified, scrubbed clean of its soul—but Crescent Hall stands defiant, a relic of what this neighborhood used to be. Cecil has kept it that way, and the rumors about how he’s managed to do that swirl as thick as the ghost stories tied to this place.

Developers have tried to push him out, but their efforts always seem to end in unexplained accidents, mysterious deaths, or just plain bad luck. Some say it’s the ghosts of thetwenty-six enslaved people who perished in the refinery fire that engulfed this very building almost 200 years ago. Others whisper that Cecil’s “divine intervention” has more to do with his hired muscle and less with the spirits.

I’m not sure which version I believe, but I can respect a man who defends what’s his either way.

He stops at the kitchen, turning to face me. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes, dark and sharp, take in every inch of me.

“You a praying man, Marcus?”

The question catches me off guard. It reminds me of the date I had with Tessa before I proposed. She asked me about my relationship with God and accepted my answer, even though I knew it wasn’t the one she wanted to hear.

God, I miss her.

I blink and shake the memory before answering Cecil. “Not... recently.”

He nods, his fingers brushing the rosary dangling from his belt. “No time for confession myself,” he says, almost amused. “But prayers of forgiveness? Those you can send up all day.”

I force a smile. “Good to know.”

Cecil’s skepticism doesn’t waver. He studies me like he’s trying to crack open my skull and sift through the contents. But then, without another word, he nods toward the fryer. “Get to work.”’

When Cecil turns his back, I let out a slow breath, the tension in my shoulders easing just enough for me to think clearly. My hands move automatically, dropping baskets into the fryer, but my mind’s somewhere else—on her.

Tessa Baptiste.

---